


His Sunbeam

by Draco_sollicitus



Series: Force and Fortitude: Regency Star Wars [2]
Category: Star Wars, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens, Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi
Genre: Alternate Universe-Regency, Companion Piece, F/M, Heavy pining, Star Wars comes to Netherfield Park, austen au, makes more sense if you read F&F first, unless you’re down for some lengthy pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-16 00:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14152716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draco_sollicitus/pseuds/Draco_sollicitus
Summary: Commander Poe Dameron, determined flirt and eligible bachelor, does not expect to find a wife at Crait Manor while attending a September ball. His life has been the sea and his ship, but he could not have foreseen meeting the young, bright ward to the Solos, Miss Rey Kenobi, who captures his attention, and shortly after that, his heart. After accidentally injuring her pride, he fears that he may never convince her of his intentions; he fears that he may not deserve the future he wishes for them to build together.(Sequel to Force and Fortitude -- Can be read separately, but it does not cover all the plot points, so it could be confusing!)





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Who's ready for some pining?
> 
> Chapter One covers dialogue from Part One, with Poe's POV/thought process, as well as some new scenes and dialogue. 
> 
> Other chapters will depart/add scenes, with some of the dialogue from F&F built in (to give Poe's perspective in key scenes)

Two men race each other down a country lane; the taller of the two spurs his black steed desperately, shouting in frustration as his companion effortlessly overtakes him on his Thoroughbred.

The winner turns his horse around at the established finish line and trots back to his groaning friend, who has draped himself over the neck of his horse dramatically.

“No one should take such pleasure in beating a man who has suffered such injury,” Ben Solo moans, clutching his shoulder that bears a scar from last year.

“Nonsense, I would have beaten you before your injury. In fact, I recall several occasions where my victory was secured over you,” Commander Poe Dameron, recently returned from sea, grins at his oldest friend, and loops around the stationary horse and rider.

“Watch your tongue, scoundrel, or I shall remove it for you.” Ben’s vehemence is undercut by his vicious eye roll.

“I will not be intimidated by you,” Poe shrugs. He rides up next to Solo and offers him a challenging grin. “Besides, you’d have to catch me first.”

Shouting with laughter, he spurs his horse forward, and Ben barely has time to respond before they are galloping back towards Yavin, where the Damerons have held property for two generations.

When they near the great house, Poe slows his horse, not needing to win this race. Sensing the drop in competitive spirit, Ben relents his pace as well, and they approach the stables side by side. After they dismount, Ben tries to convince him, once more, that the ball at Crait next week will be an agreeable enterprise.  

“I despise balls, you know that, Ben.” Poe shakes his head and straightens his coat. “Besides, with me there, you’ll have even less luck with the fairer sex than normal.”

“Oh yes, my desperate desire for entertaining the fairer sex.” Ben’s shoulders are stiff, but his tone is light. Poe immediately regrets his joke; he had not meant to remind his friend of his disastrous, failed engagement with Miss Netal.

“What makes this ball so different from any other we have attended in the past?” Poe asks, not unkindly. “We will dance, and talk to pretty girls, and drink and eat until we can do none of those activities without wincing. And at some point, a person will probably realize that I courted their younger sister, or their cousin, and, in remembering that I am not married to the young woman, will surely challenge me, and then I shall die. Do you wish for me to die upon an avenging relative’s sword, all for the sake of you having a friend at a ball?”

“It is either you on the sword, or me from boredom.” Ben claps his shoulder jovially. “And, forgive my selfishness, but I would much rather not die.”

“You do great credit to the title of friend, Mr. Solo.”

Ben bows ironically, and when he straightens, fixes Poe with a surprisingly genuine look. “I believe that you will find Crait worth your time, should you choose to appear. You have been at sea for so long; perhaps you are merely worried you have forgotten how to use your legs on solid ground?” He does a half-jig lazily, and Poe laughs.

“I can tell you are trying to encourage me to prove you wrong, and I must admit, it is working. Fine. I shall attend, if only to prove to you that there is no more unpleasant event than a ball.”

***

 Poe Dameron does not expect to be diverted at Crait; he expects to be bored out of his mind, counting the hours until he returns to Yavin, his beloved father, and his favorite hunting dog Bartleby.

Poe Dameron does not expect to encounter anything of merit or interest at an event that he only attends at the express wish of his close friend and former shipmate, Ben Solo; he accepts the invitation after Ben’s insistence that there shall be reward aplenty for his appearance.

Poe Dameron does not expect to find himself, at Crait, looking upon the most bewitching creature in the known universe.

Here, at this small country ball, he did not expect to spy an angel, a celestial being, descend to the earth and grace their society with her presence. But there she is, greeting children with a delighted smile upon her face, and then greeting gentlemen who dare to approach her with a slightly less genuine, if still dazzling, smile. She stands beatifically at the side of Mr. Han Solo, a long-time favourite of the Dameron family, and Poe feels a part of his very soul drift away from himself and travel across the room to her.

The young woman is resplendent in green and silver, a fashionable gown that does great favours to her already remarkable beauty. Poe does not care for propriety –  _damn_ propriety, if it means he cannot admire her openly; and after all, no person would care if he studied  _art_ in this fashion – his eyes refuse to move from her, and he wonders at her identity.

She is Aphrodite –

No. He examines her light figure and keen gaze, the intricate hairstyle that frames her lovely face. She is Diana, Artemis, the huntress. And he is a deer caught in the hunt.

“Would you like to be introduced to my family’s ward, Dameron, or would you like to continue to stare at her from across the ballroom?” Poe’s reverie is broken by the deep voice of his longtime friend Ben Solo, whom he had not seen or sensed on his approach.

“Pardon?” He asks, still dazed from the appearance of a goddess at their country ball.

“I said, would you like me to introduce you to Miss Kenobi? Or would you prefer to catch flies, as you are wont to do with your mouth agape in its current fashion?”

“You would –” Poe clears his throat and adjusts his cufflinks. “You would introduce us?”

“If the commander wishes,” Ben says drily. “Does he?”

“Yes, Mr. Solo.” Poe still does not move his eyes from the woman – from Miss Kenobi. “I would like that very much.”

Ben laughs, very much at Poe, and walks towards his father and their ward.

Poe follows dutifully and wonders, briefly, at the circumstances that led this faery to be ward to humanity; he still considers her assured place amongst the pantheon when he hears her voice for the first time.

“Thank God in Heaven, I already know this one!” Miss Kenobi’s voice is warm, low, animated, with an undeniable lilt of a northerner; Poe notes with amusement that she has, rather magnanimously, extended her hand out to Ben as if allowing an audience with him. Her eyes are fixed on Ben’s face, her chin tipped up so she can look at him fully.

Poe does not know how to contend with a meeting with royalty, so he decides to continue in the manner in which he is most well-acquainted: humor. He feels her bright eyes land upon his face, and he takes that as his cue to comment to Ben, loudly enough for her to hear, “That is a very warm welcome indeed, Mr. Solo.”

 “Commander Poe Dameron,” Ben says, smirking, surely at Poe’s miscalculation – for a red flush has fallen upon the lady’s face in what must surely be irritation at being confronted with a lowly mortal, “May I present my family’s ward and my most beloved sister, Miss Rey Kenobi.”

Han murmurs something to his son, but Poe cannot hear, not when he bows to the lady. Poe chances a smile up at her, and her mouth twitches as if holding back a smile of her own. Her curtsy further emphasizes the graceful curve of her neck, and the candlelight shines upon her hair.

He has not fully understood the phrase in the past, but he finally means it wholeheartedly when he says, “A pleasure.”

Instead of falling upon practiced pleasantries, Miss Kenobi’s mouth quirks curiously, creating an adorable wrinkle in her pert nose. “A Commander? What ship do you captain?” He cannot help the answering grin on his face. She has said but fifteen words in his presence, and he is utterly enchanted; there is nothing practiced or polished about this lady, but he finds he does not care. He has met with accomplished women in the past, and none have been so intriguing. What does he care for manners, when he could have spirit?

“The  _Black Beauty_ ,” he smiles wider at the thought of his ship, and the thought of this woman standing on the deck of his ship. That, among all of his fantasies of the night, will be the one that will assuredly never come true. His own personal opinions aside, the Navy does not allow women on its ships. He is not thinking when he moves into a shameless brag and even more shameless flirtation. “A fine vessel, finest in the feet, the most beautiful thing upon this earth. Well, I may have to reconsider that opinion, in light of current company.”

Commander Dameron is not used to making miscalculations, but he feels Ben’s elbow slam into his own, and when his eyes dart over, he sees Han Solo scowling at him.  _She is a lady,_ he scolds himself. Miss Kenobi’s fair skin flames ever brighter, highlighting a dusting of freckles that, while not fashionable, are certainly endearing. He also spies a scar high on her cheekbone. He is lost in wondering where a high-born lady could have possibly gotten such a mark, when he gets his response.

 “Must we doubt your loyalty so soon in our acquaintance, Commander Dameron? If your opinion is changed so readily, with such little provocation, one might wonder at your constancy.” Miss Kenobi arches a single, perfect brow at him, and Poe is suddenly afloat in the vastness of her gaze. “Are your opinions so easily changed, or should we accept that a modest young woman from the country could possibly outshine the finest ship in His Majesty’s Armada?”

The very earth shifts beneath his feet, as he feels his anchor to it detach. He knew Miss Kenobi to be a beauty when he laid eyes on her; he now knows her to be in possession of a formidable mind, a clever wit, and a dazzling resistance to the charms that have so easily gained him the favour of ladies in the past.

Commander Dameron has wooed many women, taken full advantage of the happy manners, pleasant countenance, and attractive mien he knows he has been blessed with. Poe regrets the freeness of Commander Dameron; he regrets his attention to other ladies as he stands before this woman whose sharp gaze seems to cut right through him, straight to the bone, seeing his every fault, every vice, and every sin he has committed these twenty-five years.  Poe wishes he had come to her free of knowledge of other women, free of the weight of his career at sea, free of obligation, and duty. He would like nothing more than to throw himself into her service, like a knight to his queen, a servant to his lady.

It takes but a few seconds thoughts for him to realize that he is very much on his way to being in love. Poe has never been in love, despite knowing many things  _of_ love.

No, he did not expect this at all when he arrived at Crait.

Somehow, he manages to secure the honor of her fourth dance, and he awaits the number with trepidation. He is lucky enough to be stationed near her in the third dance, and she makes lively, playful conversation with him, that Poe is all too eager to return with equal wit.

When they arrange themselves for the start of their own dance, he is dismayed to see her attention slipping, but she assures him she is worried for Ben. She looks embarrassed to use the man’s Christian name in open company, but he smiles at her and reassure her that he too worries for Ben. And this is true: Ben was disconsolate after the severance of his engagement to Miss Netal last year; and, having been close friends with him during their adolescence and studies, Poe has personally pulled Ben out of scores of brawls, fights, and near-duels. Ben Solo is a good man, with too much fire and far too much temper. Seeing him speak with his family’s young ward in the previous dance, Poe had noted that it was the first time he’d seen the man smile without care in years. Miss Kenobi may not realize it, but she is a remarkable young lady indeed, to inspire such affection in his oft-irate friend.

His reflection is broken by the lovely voice of his partner. “May I confess something?” she asks.

 _Anything,_ he wants to say.  _You can tell me anything. I am your vassal wretch._ “Do you find me trustworthy enough to confess to?” he asks instead, examining her lively countenance for a sign of trepidation.

“I find there are degrees of secrets,” Miss Kenobi states. “And the one I wish to share with you is not so much one of mortal importance; merely relevant to our current activity.” He finds it only slightly terrifies him that her intellect vastly outpaces his own.

“Ah, a confession about dancing,” He forces his face into one of solemn regard. “Or a confession about attractive men?” He ends with a wink, and Poe feels her stiffen in his arms. Another miscalculation. Miss Kenobi does not appreciate his rakish flirtations. He must learn to inhibit those inclinations in her presence.  “Forgive me, I have not been in polite society for very long. I just returned from sea, and some habits are hard to return to.”

She smiles warmly at him at that, and Poe finds himself forced to look away, to avoid making a fool of himself if his face gives too much of his thoughts away. “I forgive you. I have not been in polite society very long either, and I don’t even have the benefit of habits to rely upon. Which brings me to my confession.” He waits, patiently, for Miss Kenobi to continue. “I confess that I may not be as spirited as before, if only because my focus is divided. I fear that I have to count the steps of this dance in my head, or I would lose control completely and fall either on my face or into your arms.”

 _Without practice, and utterly charming. Lord, may society never diminish her light._ “No one could accuse you of being un-spirited, my lady. And I must confess that the latter of those outcomes does not sound entirely unpleasant.”  _Damn you, Commander, have some control over yourself._

Miss Kenobi does not recoil from his intimation, and it gives him reason to hope that she does not find him utterly repugnant. “Very good then. If it is not  _entirely_ unpleasant. Maybe only mildly?”

“Yes, mildly unpleasant.”  _If you fall, I would happily catch you, and I would every time if you let me._

Regretfully, this brings an end to their dance and their time together, and he watches while she dances with Draven. He forces himself to walk away, knowing that there will be whispers tomorrow if a commander who has made it perfectly clear he has no interest in matrimony is desperately pining over the youthful, beautiful ward of a wealthy family.

Miss Kenobi does not dance the sixth dance, and he breathes a sigh of relief, not quite knowing why. She settles herself near the windows, and he watches her attention drift, now that she is no longer at the mercy of the fool, Draven. Poe snorts, recalling the look upon her face when he’d trod on her toes not three seconds into their dance. Politely pained, and all too forgiving. Would it have not reflected poorly on her own character, he would have thrown the man off the floor himself and taken his place as her rightful partner. Poe shakes his head. It does not do to think of himself as her rightful anything. She is not his.

 _Not yet,_ his mind whispers, hopefully.  _But maybe?_ Poe shakes his head. This is her first ball. He cannot pretend to have made such an impression on the lady that she would forsake all future social engagements, any other possible matches, just because he, a sailor and soldier who still is under obligation to travel for months at a time, wants to explore the sudden and inexplicable desire he has to allow her to master his soul, and command his spirit. No. Miss Kenobi deserves better than the love of a sailor.

Still, he cannot wonder where her clever mind has gone. Miss Kenobi studies the windows, her expression lost in thought, hazel eyes glassy while her rosebud mouth stills into a maddening half-smile.

Ben returns to Poe’s side, a healthy measure of liquor missing from his glass. “My friend, may I suggest a less aggressive approach with Miss Kenobi?”

“I know not what you mean, Solo.” Poe denies the suggestion immediately.  _And the cock crowed the third time,_ his pastor’s voice intones in his mind.

 “Of course not.” Ben takes another draft, and he continues in the same vein. Poe studies the couples in the room, while Ben informs him, “Miss Kenobi loves the green and growing things of this world. She was nervous and shy when she came to live with us, and would not speak a word in front of my father or myself. But she was quite taken with the small garden my mother afforded her, and as she coaxed plants from the earth, life too returned to her. Her spirit charmed us all, and she has become a dear member of our family.”

“May I inquire as to why you are telling me this, Benjamin?” Poe regards his friend curiously.

“Go talk to her of the grounds at Crait. Miss Kenobi has a mind for science and inquiry; she commented on the drive here that she had read of the unique soil on these grounds. I suggest you start there, maybe even ask if she would like to see the gardens? I am positive she would respond well to this.” Ben tips his glass sloppily at Poe, some of the liquid sloshing over the sides. “I could even chaperone.”

Poe barely hears this last statement, his mind already whirring with possible conversations. He sees that Miss Kenobi has quit the ballroom; her small form now stands out on the balcony of the manor. She looks ethereal in the torchlight, and he is drawn to her like moth to a flame. Poe registers Ben slapping him on the back heartily before he is walking across the floor and out the doors to her side.

He sees her shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly upon his approach, and he quickly speaks to put her at ease.

“Beautiful night.” She does not turn her large, celestial eyes away from the grounds and upon himself. He wishes she would.  

“It is,” she agrees demurely.

“I was wondering –”  _if you were inclined to accept my humblest entreaties for your attention; may I call upon you at your earliest convenience; may I throw myself at your feet._

He forgets to continue, too enraptured with the sight of her under the flickering torches.

“Yes?” Miss Kenobi finally turns, to smile at him playfully, surely laughing at his temporary loss of speech.  

 _Say it, man._ “I was wondering if you would like to take a turn about the gardens.”  _I fear that I may perish from the feeling of your hand in my elbow, but I find that I do not care._ Poe releases a breath and turns to study the grounds as he finishes his suggestion.

“What?” Miss Kenobi sounds highly confused still “Now? In the dark?”

“Yes.  _God, I am a wreck.”_ He murmurs the last part under his breath. “Yes, we could borrow a light, and we could see the gardens up close, and it could be very – pleasant.” Poe understands that he is making a misstep, but trapped in her gaze, he cannot remember why, so he examines the gardens all the more studiously..

“You mean to suggest that you and I enter the gardens at night, with no chaperone, to – to look at plants?” Something sounds different in her voice; colder. It sends an odd chill down his spine.  

“I mean we could talk and do things other than look at plants.” He turns to look at her. Miss Kenobi has shrunk in on herself, her arms wrapping around her middle and small shoulders rounding inward. Poe realizes he has made a grievous misstep.

“I apologize, sir,” Miss Kenobi does not look sorry. She looks frightened, and angry. “I fear that would be most improper. You will find some other partner to examine the gardens with. I will remain up here, and I will remember my place. I wish you would remember yours.”

“No!”  _God above, I am a fool._  He lowers his voice when he sees people staring at him. Poe frets over what might be said of Miss Kenobi if people whisper about a naval officer accosting her and shouting at her at a public ball. “I only meant to say – I thought you would enjoy it.”

 “You mock me.” Tears shine in her eyes.

Poe is a wretched creature. He is a monster.

 “Indeed I do not, Miss Kenobi. How could a mortal such as myself mock Diana?”

Still, the tears form. “A funny joke. You know who I am, what they say about me. The Kenobi orphan, the wild girl raised on the moors, apart from polite society, who has known no gentility nor demonstrated a curbed spirit. Hardly a girl that could be fitting for an officer and a gentleman such as yourself to associate with, especially in the dark, especially without chaperone.”

 _I did not know any of that, my lady._ “I meant no offense, I assure you. I humbly entreat you for your pardon.”  _Please, forgive me._

“I do not give it, for offense was taken. Save your easy smiles and pretty words for a girl who can afford to be swayed. I will not bring further shame to the Solo house.”

“Further shame? I do not pretend to know what you imply, Miss Kenobi. The Solo name is a fine one.” Poe has no idea of what she speaks; perhaps this ‘wild’ upbringing she seems to have such shame for?

“My being in their house sullies their name, good sir.” Miss Kenobi pauses to wipe her eyes, and Poe is transfixed. An angel weeps in front of him, and it is his fault. He has never known terror like this. “The things that are said about my upbringing; the implications of my ruined state. Surely you must have heard the rumors. Surely that must be the reason for your attempt to isolate me from the other women.”

 _Ruined state?_ Surely she does not mean… It matters not. He cares not about reputation, has never placed high stakes on a woman’s worth being so united to her knowledge of men, so he tries to tell her. And of course he makes it worse.

He tries to tell her that her brother had suggested the walk in the garden – remembering all too late that Ben had offered himself as chaperone,  _that’s what I forgot_ – when Ben appears and leads Rey away. Poe is astounded when she invites him to call upon her. He does not understand why a woman he has so insulted would want to see him again. But he thanks every star in sight for her largesse, and he eagerly awaits the next week, when he can see her again.

***

On his first visit to Alderaan, he brings flowers. Poe spotted them in his father’s garden, and secured a bouquet that he cut himself. He imagines the blue blooms in Miss Kenobi’s hands, a gentle smile playing on her lips, a happy expression to replace the one of misery and shame he had been responsible for the next week.

He has faced pirates and enemy soldiers and terrible thirty foot waves – but he cannot manage the nerve to give them to Miss Kenobi. Instead he hands them to Mrs. Solo, and while fumbling for conversation, is exposed to Miss Kenobi’s staggering intellect and wit once more.

Poe Dameron is a doomed man; his affection for this woman his eternal torment. How could she want him, after he had injured her so?

***

On his second visit to Alderaan, Miss Kenobi politely greets him when he enters the room, and then returns to her book. The older Mr. Solo sits at her side, reading through a report from town. Poe regrets not being able to study Miss Kenobi’s profile fully, as her guardian seems to sense whenever his eyes begin to rove through the room, whenever his glance so much as passes over her figure. In those moments, he catches Poe’s eye, and the look exchanged between the men cuts Poe to the soul.

Mr. Solo understands that Poe is not worthy of the young lady’s presence. Poe wishes to relay that he understands this fact as well, but he wishes to defend himself with the knowledge he cannot help the magnetic pull he feels to Miss Kenobi, the deep-seated yearning he has for her attention, no matter how brief.

He cannot help but reflect on his damnable mistake at Crait, when he had insulted her honor. He knows this to be the reason for her disinterest in his company. Poe intends on proving his worth to her, if only to gain greater access to her quick wit and sharp mind, the likes of which he has not been met with in the opposite, or even the same sex. To do this, though, he must first demonstrate that his intentions are decent. And if he continues to stare at her like a leering cad, then he cannot do this. So Poe dedicates himself to conversation with Ben Solo, and tries to keep his eyes from the corner of the room where the most beautiful woman he has ever met sits upon a chair, unaware of how she blesses the object, and the room, and the county, and his life, by her very presence.

An hour before dinner, Poe experiences another shift in his world. From his seat across the library, Poe watches Miss Kenobi laugh behind her hand at a comment made by Mr. Solo. If you asked him an hour later, he would not, for all the stars in the sky, be able to recall what Ben was saying in that moment when Miss Rey Kenobi laughed.

His entire focus narrows in on the light, musical sound that emerges from the goddess of Somerset. He knows now that he was wrong, utterly wrong, to think her Diana at their first meeting. Diana was the goddess of the moon, after all.

Miss Kenobi is not the moon. She is the sun, and he cannot believe the source of his fortune in being blessed in his proximity to her warmth, her light, her perfection.

Poe readily accepts Mrs. Solo’s invitation to dinner that evening. He shall be damned if he must quit Miss Kenobi’s presence a moment before he has to. Sure enough, when he departs from Alderaan that night, he finds that he cannot abide to turn his back upon the most glorious sunbeam to bless the earth as he rides down the drive.

                                                        

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future Chapters that I have planned:  
> Ch. 2: Deleted Scene from F&F (In town, Poe wants to buy a small gift for Rey, overhears gossip)  
> Ch. 3: Poe at Sea  
> Ch. 4: Takodana (Poe POV, aka his initial reaction to Hux's courtship)**  
> Ch. 5: Hux's Courtship (Poe's perspective on Hux's visits to Alderaan, his causing Rey's accident, his proposal)**  
> Ch. 6: Time at Sea/Near-drowning  
> Ch. 7: Return to Alderaan/Requesting Han's permission**
> 
> If there was another scene/moment you were curious for his POV on, let me know!
> 
>  
> 
> (** Scenes from F&F)


	2. Early Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe runs into Rey and Ben in town, and overhears unpleasant gossip (check chapter notes)
> 
> Poe witnesses a strange moment at Alderaan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Deleted scenes from Force and Fortitude!) 
> 
> Warning!: Some ladies gossip about Rey's past: unpleasant implications are made about her 'virtue' (i.e. they speculate that she lost her virginity, and there are suggestions of violence/assault)
> 
> Warning 2: Poe recalls consensual relations with a lady (a reference made in passing because let's face it people weren't nearly as stifled as we want to pretend they were)

Poe walks through town one bright morning in November after visiting the tailor to be measured for a pair of pants to replace the ones Bartleby had chewed through. _Perhaps this is why people do not often allow dogs into their private rooms,_ he muses. Bartleby had been so put out about not being invited on a recent ride though, and it seemed that his pants, left out on his bed, had paid the ultimate price.

It is an unexpected delight to spy Miss Kenobi emerge from a door at the end of the street, and pause to examine the contents of the general store’s window with unguarded interest, an almost painful wistfulness upon her lovely face. Poe looks about for her chaperone, and sure enough, Ben Solo emerges from the barrister’s office. He shouts a farewell over his shoulder and calls to Miss Kenobi, who turns from the window almost guiltily and follows him across the street. They enter the milliner’s, and Poe strides forward, a brilliant idea already rolling around in his head as he realizes what Rey was looking at: candy.

Maz Kanata, who he’s known since he was five years old and would beg his father for a treat on visits to town, greets him jovially as he enters her shop and heads right to the candy.

“Something sweet for you, Commander?” Maz asks, twinkle in her eyes. “Or perhaps, the sweetness you seek has already exited my shop? And is purchasing ribbons?”

“Maz, we both know you’re the sweetest thing in here.” Poe grins at her and selects several pieces. “And I cannot pretend to know what you are talking about.”

“Alright, my boy. If that is the game you wish to play.” He leans on the counter and winks at the old woman, who swats his arm and gives him his candy for free.

Poe emerges back onto the street, but is met with his next challenge. He needs to determine what he wishes to do next. Give the gift to Miss Kenobi now, in broad daylight? Wait until he calls upon her this afternoon? But, then he’d have to explain that he saw her in town, and she might wonder as to why he did not hail them on the street. _Bugger **.**_ He has never had this much trouble wooing a woman.

A vicious internal reprimand courses through him. He is not wooing Miss Kenobi. His attentions had not been met with great success, and she seems to receive him much better when he talks to her as he would a friend, or a fellow gentleman. This candy is an olive branch, a continued sign of his good intentions, his desire to soothe the tension between them following his accidental cruelty at the ball.

Poe takes a deep breath and moves to cross the street, when he hears the angel’s name pass the lips of someone nearby.

Miss Netal, Miss Johnson, and Miss Kun are taking the air, and apparently, taking the liberty of discussing Miss Kenobi, who is visible in the milliner’s window, her lovely face flushed at the veritable mountain of ribbons and fine fabrics Ben is handing her eagerly for her to examine.  

“I cannot believe the Solos took in a charity case,” Miss Johnson comments. “Mr. Solo seems quite taken with Miss Kenobi already. How fortunate that they share a roof.” Poe stiffens at the implication. Ben only ever talks about Miss Kenobi as a sister; nothing untoward happens between them, he knows it, and it is offensive for the young lady to suggest otherwise.

“Yes, how lucky for all. It was quite the scandal,” Miss Netal says, not bothering to drop the volume of her voice. “They found her all alone up in that house, running around the moors – she was barefoot, apparently, and walked off the carriage at Alderaan with nothing but a dress and a coat in her possession. Her hair, uncombed and around her shoulders – right into a house with men.”

“I think she sounds fearsome brave,” Miss Kun’s voice cuts in. “And that story stirs my sympathy, not my reproach. Besides, I quite like Miss Kenobi. She is very kind, and very lively. I think she shall be an excellent addition to our society.” Poe has always liked Karoline Kun; now he likes her even more. He knows Commander Wexley is quite taken with her, and in this moment he can think of no better person in the universe to match with his loyal friend.

Poe has half a mind to clear his throat and startle the gathering of ladies, when Miss Johnson adds, spite coloring her voice, “Well, it’s no surprise then, what else they say. Poor Miss Kenobi, to have her virtue ruined in such a fashion. I don’t know what she expected, living out there by herself for months on end. It’s honestly surprising that she’s _alive._ Shame that no man of stature could ever want her now, after what she’s seen and what’s been done.”

He doesn’t know what he feels most keenly in the moment: rage at the implication, disgust at the callous nature of the gossip, intense, dizzying protectiveness for Miss Kenobi. Poe arranges his face into a fierce countenance and walks past the group of women.

“Oh! Commander Dameron, I did not see you there.” Miss Netal flutters her lashes at him. He supposes she is a beauty, in the common way. High brow, luxurious, fashionable hair, a pleasing figure. All he sees now is the malice in her eyes, and he sees her for what she is – a cruel wretch.

“I saw you,” he comments, cold anger lacing his voice. _Do not make a scene,_ he chides himself. _That will only give further rumors for them to spread._

“Where are you headed on this fine day?” Miss Johnson asks coquettishly. Poe recalls a ball a year ago, where he and Miss Johnson had danced together, and then found a quiet, secluded part of the manor to enjoy less proper activities for a pleasant hour. The memory brings a taste of ash to his mouth, now.

“I’m going to speak with Mr. Solo about a business matter.” Poe bows, specifically to Kare. “Miss Kun.” He stalks past the group without acknowledging either of the other women.

When he approaches the milliner, he waves through the window at Ben, and he is pleased to see Miss Kenobi return the gesture as well. Ben catches her elbow gently and shakes his head, clearly reproaching her for the impropriety. Poe could not care less; he does not wish for her spirit to be curbed. He wishes to see her free, and herself. He wishes. Oh, how he wishes.

Poe walks into the shop, under the pretense to talk with Ben about a riding party next week. As Rey studies the ribbon with a strange light on her face, Poe tries to keep his attention on Ben. He pats his coat as if remembering something, and says, “Miss Kenobi – I wonder if you had tried some of Mrs. Kanata’s confections. I have a small piece here, if you would be interested. They were my favorites as a boy, and now you are come to stay, I imagine you should have the best our town can offer.” Poe determinedly avoids Ben’s eyes on his face as he extends the stick of spun sugar to Rey, who takes it shyly, blushing.

“I thank you, commander,” she says, examining the sweet closely. “I was just admiring the display in the window.”

“You should have said, Miss Kenobi,” Ben says. She does not turn to look at him, or back at Poe, merely turning the confection over in her small hand. “I could have given you some money.”

“I did not wish to ask,” she admits, colour rising higher on her cheeks. “I have never had candy; it seemed like such a frivolous thing to ask for.”

Ben smiles softly at his family’s ward, then, and Poe’s heart aches at the thought of her life before. The gossip of the young women has only accomplished furthering his interest in her happiness, and deepening the strange, aching affection that burns in his chest for Miss Kenobi.

Rey pops the candy in her mouth curiously, and he watches, bewitched, as delight descends upon her face. “But it is so sweet!” she laughs, hand coming to cover her mouth. Poe studiously avoids looking at her lips more than necessary as she returns to the candy, and when he turns to talk with Ben some more, he studiously avoids responding to the smug accusation on his friend’s face.

***

When Poe visits Alderaan the next week, he walks down the hallway towards the study, in search of the older Mr. Solo, hoping to catch his ear about the rise in piracy off the shores of the continent.

He spies Miss Kenobi talking animatedly with a young servant; both young women have their backs to him, but Poe imagines that the sunbeam of a lady is smiling. She usually is.

The servant cannot be more than thirteen years old, and is much shorter than Miss Kenobi; the lady is pointing at a painting on the wall and nodding vigorously. Perhaps the servant is explaining the source of the artwork.

The servant begins to walk away, but trips and drops the pitcher she was holding. Poe moves forward, still unnoticed by the women, intending to offer his assistance in cleaning the broken pottery. The young girl looks distraught, already bending down to grab the pieces, but Miss Kenobi lays a comforting hand on her arm. “Don’t worry, Hannah,” he overhears her murmuring. “One of the men can clean this.” She kneels down next to the girl, Hannah, and helps her sweep the shards into a neat pile.

Poe cannot abide the idea of either cutting her hands on the shards, but he is stopped in his intent to assist by the sudden appearance of Mrs. Solo.

“What happened, Rey?” She asks, taking in the scene. Hannah stands, a flush on her neck, but Miss Kenobi is faster.

“I dropped the pitcher, ma’am,” she says quickly, standing tall. “I wanted to bring Mr. Solo some refreshment, but I moved too hastily and lost my balance. Hannah was just helping me clean it up. I am deeply sorry for my clumsiness.”

Poe wonders if the blush on her face is from the weight of the lie, or from fear for Mrs. Solo’s response; her fists are clenched at her sides.

The matron of the house waves her hand idly. “No matter, Rey, it’s just a pitcher, it can be replaced. I’d rather you not injure yourself trying to pick it up. I’ll send a man to clear the floor. Hannah, would you be a dear and assist me in the front room? Some flowers need arranging.” The servant nods eagerly and follows Mrs. Solo down the hallway, turning to smile brightly at Miss Kenobi over her shoulder, who returns the expression just as brightly.

Poe is frozen where he stands when the young lady turns around and sees him at the end of the hallway.

“Commander Dameron.” Miss Kenobi bows and looks at him strangely. “My brother is in the sunroom.”

 _I do not visit here to see your brother,_ he wants to tell her. _I only wish to see you._ But Poe bows and thanks the lady. She hurries away up the stairs, and he cannot follow her, no matter how much he wishes he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commander Dameron, you are a royal mess.


	3. Master and Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe POV of the garden farewell scene.  
> Poe at sea (the composition of letters and the reflection upon his love)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all like extended pining and letter writing and dreams <3 (that good old Regency slow burn)
> 
>  
> 
> Letters are in italics, dreams are separated by ~ marks

Poe strides across the grounds at Alderaan a week before he departs for another series of long months away from – the country. Not  away from any particular bright-eyed wards with a smile composed of starlight, with musical laughs and rapier wits: he leaves the country, not a young lady. Certainly not a young lady who currently shines brightly in the weak sun of February, her hair aglow and her face turned down, considering the earth of her garden, which reaches up at times to pull at her gown, weaving her into its essence in a fitting manner, creating a tableau of sylvan perfection.  

She seems concerned by a thatch of weeds, and she pulls at them; he worries that a thorn may catch upon her hand, may tear at her perfect flesh. Her fingers move lightly, unconcerned for the potential damage, and Poe wishes he were a painter, so he could capture this scene, where Miss Kenobi looks so radiant and at peace.

He slows his pace considerably as he nears her, Persephone in her garden. He is Hades, he is an intruder, he is an interloper. He cannot speak without the goddess granting permission or audience.

Instead, she speaks first. “Could you lend me your knife? This weed is proving to be most stubborn.” The lack of a title in her address suggests that she does not yet know who has walked up to her sanctuary.

Poe admires the figure the young lady cuts before answering, almost regretting that he must break the spell that has descended upon the garden. “That is their job, Miss Kenobi.” Her cheeks are flaming red when she turns to look at him, and while it brings out the freckles on her lovely cheeks, the freckles that have yet to fade from last summer, he regrets to have startled her. He smiles nonetheless, enraptured by the way the cool air has brought colour to her complexion, the gorgeous chestnut strands that have escaped her braid and are brushing against her cheek in the wind. _We cannot call her winds and waters, sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report._

Now is not the time for Shakespeare, he tells himself. 

“Oh, forgive me, Commander. I thought you were Mr. Solo, or perhaps my brother.” Miss Kenobi looks greatly uneasy.

He smiles at her, trying to relieve the anxiety in her voice. “No need to apologize; I am happy to be of assistance.” _Please, let me help you in all things._ “May I enter?” When he receives her permission, Poe enters, feeling strangely boyish. Her garden is her private place; Ben told him this. He feels like he is trespassing on some great work; it is lovely and green in her garden, even in the late winter, and when Miss Kenobi laments the lack of color, his mind already spins with plans of how to bring more color to her life, if only to repay her in kind for the vitality she has brought to his.

His pocketknife is of some use in freeing a lattice from the stubborn weed; Poe briefly examines the small wooden structure and notes that it is hand-crafted, perhaps by the lady herself. When he throws the portions of the weed into a nearby bucket, he realizes that Miss Kenobi looks upon his face steadily.

“Thank you,” Miss Kenobi smiles, and it is warmer than the Caribbean sun.

Before he can do anything foolish, such as profess his undying admiration and loyalty to his queen, he bows and begins to take his leave. “It was my great pleasure to help you.”

“Commander.” His angel calls, and he turns to answer.

“Miss Kenobi?” Poe stands awkwardly, as if waiting for an order from an Admiral. The lady is closer than he remembers; perhaps one foot of space exists between them. How he wishes to close that distance, pull her to his body, demonstrate his passion for her, feel her against him in this garden, until they are as alive and vital as the plants growing around them – Poe curses himself for the impropriety, stalling his thoughts before they can become even more scandalous. He waits for God to strike him down, but before He can –  

“You have some dirt on your face.” Poe is marble. He is ice. He is fire – she reaches towards him, small hand extended curiously. He will not move. She cannot mean to _touch_ him, so familiarly? She freezes, her hand above his jaw, and he begs the universe to allow her to continue to press forward, until he feels her upon his skin. Something in his face – no doubt wild and lustful – must give her pause, for she pulls her hand away abruptly. “I apologize.” _Do not apologize, merely touch me, and I shall die a happy man._ “Here, please, use this.”

Miss Kenobi gives him a handkerchief from her pocket, clearly embroidered by the lady herself. He cleans the dirt from his face and examines the dirtied cloth anxiously. He cannot return this to her, not when he has covered it in filth. He shall die of mortification. “Thank you,” he murmurs, remembering his manners even as he desperately searches for a solution.

“Keep it,” His goddess instructs. “I have many.”

“Miss Kenobi, I…” Poe forces himself to stop talking. What would he say to her that would not frighten or repel her? _I will treasure this until the day I die? I am not worthy of your kindness? I love you madly?_ His compromise is, “Please do not hesitate to call on me if you need any further assistance.”

“Thank you, Commander Dameron.” Those are the last words he hears from the lips of his angel before he departs Alderaan, her handkerchief tucked into his pocket as he rides for Yavin. The _Black Beauty_ waits for him, and his voyage promises to be long, and without fair maidens and their gardens.

***

When he comes across a vendor in Spain with orange, tropical flower seeds for sale, Poe purchases and sends them to Miss Kenobi without thought. Poe also finds a small map of the Strait of Gibraltar, a geographic feature she had been so cross to find ill-formed in her family’s atlas, and he sends that as well with a cheeky message referencing her ire with the cartographer.

He encloses the items inside a fairly well-composed letter that he is pleased with (after fifteen drafts and revisions).

_Dear Miss Kenobi,_

_After a bout of bad weather, my regiment has found itself in a southern Spanish harbor that belongs to England, and I am pleased to use my knowledge of the native language to assist us in our time here (I am not sure if you are aware, but my father’s parents moved from Spain some years before his birth, in an odd twist of fate, and my parents raised me to speak both English and Spanish, a useful skill now that I am a sailor)._

_While navigating the local market, I stumbled across something that may hold some interest for you. You will find it in the envelope. Also in the envelope is a packet of seeds that a merchant tells me will work just as well in the loose soil of southern England. There are many beautiful flowers here, and the seeds, if grown with the care I know you possess in spades, will produce gorgeous orange blooms that will brighten your already spectacular garden._

_I find myself wishing to be back in the great house at Alderaan, where the warm welcome I received there always brightened my week. Until my return to my favorite shore, I hope you find these plants to be of useful company, and a way to remember me more fondly than I deserve._

_Your servant,_

_Commander Poe Dameron_

 Poe receives a letter from Miss Kenobi five weeks later; it is included inside a letter from Ben Solo. His friend berates Poe for the familiarity involved in sending his vulnerable sister an unsolicited message, but Poe cannot mind, not when he has the words and thoughts of Miss Kenobi to peruse and consider and keep. He throws Ben’s letter over his shoulder without further regard, and examines the message from the Solo’s ward. Her handwriting is charming: the individual letters are close together and oddly slanted, as if written in a rush.

_Dear Commander Dameron,_

_Thank you for your thoughtfulness in sending me a letter, and in sending the flowers. I will plant the seeds as soon as the days grow warmer. There is a spot in the garden that receives a good deal of sunlight; this will probably be the best location if your flowers are to survive._

_If you intend to collect upon these flowers, you must ensure you will return by summer’s end. I cannot make promises for managing to keep the creatures of the field away from the Spanish beauties for any longer than a few months._.

_Alderaan seems forlorn in the absence of its most venerated guest. I swear I heard the crown molding cry the other day, after the chaise reliably informed it that the commander in the blue coat would not return until the sixth month of the year. A pity then, that I cannot show the house the flowers you have sent. Then it would know that your return is guaranteed, if only to examine the outcome of your generous gift._

_Please give my regards to the Black Beauty._

_Sincerely,_

_Miss Rey Kenobi_

Poe reads her letter a thousand times before he can begin to form an appropriate response. He hates that his hands shake at the idea that she wants him to return. Her playful reference to the furniture in the front room, where they have often spent afternoons in lively conversation, makes him smile for the first time in five days. Morale has been low on the ship in the wake of lessening food rations and the news that they will not be returning to England as planned in June.

And that is in and of itself a problem: Miss Kenobi is under the impression that he will not be delayed in returning to her—to England, he reminds himself.

With a heavy sigh, he writes a response. He requires several pieces of parchment and he is still unsatisfied with his message, the rocking of the boat causing him to make mistakes and lose focus. At least, Poe convinces himself that it was the rocking of the boat that led to his mistakes, the many crossed out passages, the difficulty in forming his ideas.

He ignores the first drafts and hides them in his luggage.

_Dear ~~Rey~~ Miss Kenobi, ~~~~_

_I cannot return ~~to you~~ in June ~~. The sea separates us most cruelly once more.~~_

 

Too familiar.

 

_~~My~~ _ _Dear Miss Kenobi, ~~~~_

_I trust this letter finds you well. Please inform your brother and your kind family that I will not be returning to the country in June as planned. ~~Instead I will be on this buggered, blasted ship and not at your side where I should be for all my days.~~_

 

No. Just. No.

 

_Dear Miss Kenobi, ~~~~_

_~~Your letter makes me smile like nothing else has for many months. The idea that you would think of me when we are parted soothes the deepest pains of my soul. I implore you to send me another, for you will find in me a most loyal and dedicated servant.~~ _

Too intense, Dameron.

Poe huffs in irritation and lies down on his bunk. He puts out his candle, and soon the cursed rocking of the ship sends him into sleep, where he meets with a peculiar dream.

~

Poe races down the lane at Yavin; the rider in front of him is just a little faster, just a little more skilled. Instead of being infuriated at his assured loss, Poe shouts with elation, attempting to spur his Thoroughbred onward, knowing he will fail, but exhilarated nonetheless.

The other rider, bedecked in a green riding cloak, is smaller, much smaller than Poe, their slender legs gripping their horse with intense skill and posting magnificently in the saddle. Poe forces himself to look away and refocus on the road. He wishes to catch the rider; he does not know what he will do if he succeeds.

At the end of the lane, the mysterious rider turns around, and Poe pulls up on his reins, wishing to speak with them.

They lower their hood, and he sees the flushed, lovely face of Miss Kenobi.

“Poe!” she says, laughing. “Perhaps if you spent less time examining my rear, and more time worrying about the conditions of the road, you would not have been so sorely beaten.”

“Not that sore, my love,” Poe laughs in return. He guides his horse to walk up next to hers, and they face each other. Miss Kenobi extends her left hand towards him royally, and Poe kisses it reverently. When he pulls away, he sees the sun flash upon a band of silver on her fourth finger.

It is his mother, Shara’s, ring, the one promised to his future wife. He looks up into the face of his beloved, in astonishment, and in peace.

“Poe,” she smiles down at him beatifically. His name has never sounded so wonderful. “It is time to wake up.”

~

After he wakes up, Poe writes perhaps the most improper draft yet:

_Rey,_

_I dreamt of you, and you were splendid. Do you dream of me, my sunbeam? You are the only star in the sky, and I fear I shall lose my way without you near._

_Yours, truly,_

_Poe_

He considers burning this parchment, but he adds it to his shameful collection of failed missives in his luggage. Perhaps if he drowns, they will be discovered and she will know what kind of man loved her. He hopes she finds it pleasing. He doubts she would.

In the morning, Poe completes a final draft and sends it before they draw anchor.

_Dear Miss Kenobi,_

_Thank you for your letter. You perform a great kindness to a lowly soldier through your attention and time._

_I regret to inform you that our voyage has been extended indefinitely. I wish to return to England, but my duty requires me to lead my men further into the sea at the behest of Our Majesty, the King. The days stretch longer as we sail south, and the sun bleaches the deck while tanning our skins. The open sea remains a spectacle like none other, but I find myself missing the shores and hills of England more and more._

_Your kind words will sustain me, as they are one of the few signs of civility and society I have been blessed to meet with aboard the Black Beauty. Solid ground will be a blessing when I return to it once more. Until then, know that I remain_

_Your servant,_

_Commander Poe Dameron_

***

A letter arrives some six weeks after he informed Miss Kenobi of the regretful extension of his voyage. It is late June, now, and he should be by her side, not aboard this blasted ship with no blasted land in sight. He once thrilled at the idea of the open ocean; now he curses the leagues put between him and the one he loves.

Poe waits until he is in his quarters at the end of his watch to open the letter, which is ensconced in another envelope from Ben. Poe saves her letter to read, and reads Ben’s first.

_Dameron,_

_Enclosed you will find my sister’s letter to you. I can only hope she reminds you in her letter the impropriety of an unengaged couple exchanging letters. Knowing the both of you, I can assume this is not the case. Because she will not discourage you, I find myself in the unfortunate position of wanting to protect her reputation, but also to see her smile._

_As long as your missives continue to make her smile, I will act as the messenger. However: If you continue to refuse to address the letters to me, I will have to swim to Spain and strangle you myself. Believe me: I have no intentions of reading your correspondence, and every intention of protecting my sister from gossip._

_Please try not to die, it would be most inconvenient. Although, it may win me favor with Miss Lintra. I have been told I cut a very attractive tragic figure, and I look very handsome in black._

_\--Benjamin  Solo_

_P.S. I hope you enjoy Miss Kenobi’s drawing. She showed it to me most delightedly before including it in her letter. If only I were better at drawing and had paid attention to my lessons as a boy, I could have drawn a similar portrait. Instead, I have included my own artwork: an image of me dueling you for most likely ignoring my sound advice and continuing to address my sister outwardly in your correspondence._

There is a very crude, stick figure drawing of a tall man kicking a smaller man in the seat of his pants, and Poe snorts in an ungainly fashion. Ben is right, of course. He should start enclosing his letters to Miss Kenobi in envelopes addressed to Ben. But that seems underhanded and treacherous; he has no desire to hide from anyone his intentions with Miss Kenobi, which are, of course, to woo and marry her. Well. He has no desire to hide that intention from any but Miss Kenobi, who terrifies him with her wide, omniscient gaze and smart mouth.

Shaking his head, Poe carefully slits open the envelope Ben had tucked away.

He smiles at the drawing of Ben sneezing at the flowers Poe had sent to Alderaan. Poe sighs, wishing that he could have seen Miss Kenobi amongst the blooms. They will surely be wilted by his return, and he can only hope she will speak to him of them, so he can see the animation in her face. Surely the liveliness of her countenance will be more beautiful than any exotic bloom.

Poe then turns to the letter:

_Commander Dameron,_

_I am sorely disappointed to hear of your prolonged absence from Alderaan. I had to inform the crown molding today, and it wept most bitterly. Not even the presence of your flowers could assuage its grief._

_Alderaan remains much as it ever has. Mr. Solo has taken to walking backwards, claiming it will reverse the effects of time. Mrs. Solo has taken to leaving out small items for Mr. Solo to trip over. Ben Solo remains aloof at social gatherings, and I find myself increasingly bored at balls. Mr. Draven sends his regards; I told him I would tell you this, and it was only making that promise which allowed me to remove myself from his presence._

Poe smiles at that, trying to ignore the un-Christian spark of jealousy and possessiveness that had flared at the thought of a man courting Miss Kenobi in his absence.

_I fear that the only way to encourage the wayward children of Alderaan to behave is to request your expedient return to England. I entreat you, for society’s sake, to reconsider your current navigation. If only I knew how to sail, I could assist in you in turning your ship ‘round and redirecting your course._

_Do come home, Commander._

_Yours,_

_Miss Rey Kenobi_

In the end, he reads it twice, disbelievingly. Miss Kenobi is “sorely disappointed to hear of his prolonged absence”? Miss Kenobi is “yours”? _Would she ever really wish to be mine?_ he wonders quietly.

Poe examines the words, imagines the hand that wrought them. He taps the letter against his knee as he lies down on his bunk.

His mind reeling, he sinks into a slumber, still considering the meaning behind her words. It is no wonder then, that he dreams of her again.

~

Rey Kenobi sits in a green, diaphanous gown amongst the rigging of the foremast, some ten feet off the deck.

Poe stands below her, gazing up at her; a crown of flowers adorns her red-brown mane, tumbling loose around her slender shoulders.

“What brings a goddess of the earth to sea?” He asks her curiously, the words coming unbidden to his mouth.

Rey – for he can call her Rey, here, Rey or _reina_ or _diosa_ \-- smiles down at him softly, and she answers, the words not leaving her mouth but appearing fully formed in his mind. “I have come to bring you home, Commander.”

“Where is home?” He asks her, stupefied by her glorious raiment and countenance.

“With me.” Rey alights upon the deck, leaping from her perch and landing without a sound in front of him. Her hand wraps around his, pulling the spyglass from his grip. She tucks the item into the chiffon of her gown, and Rey smiles at him dazzlingly.

“ _Te amo. Te adoro,_ ” he says to her, because how could one provide a woman like this with anything less than the truth? It is easier to be honest here, when it just the two of them abovedeck. “I love you, my sunbeam.”

“I know.” Rey leans forward and presses her lips against his. The kiss tastes like sunlight. He always imagined it would.

~

Poe wakes alone in his quarters, and his hand still grasps her last letter, with its taunting last words:

_Do come home, Commander._

_Yours,_

_Miss Rey Kenobi_

He swears he can feel the ghost of her lips on his; but now he is awake and can have no reason to not school his thoughts in an appropriate direction.

Poe can forgive his dreams for drifting towards a sensual desire for Miss Kenobi. While he is awake, he cannot afford himself the same liberties. She is a lady, and he is not fit to touch the dirt trod underneath her boots.

***

After he composes a restrained letter (although Wexley, upon examining it under the pretense of checking Poe’s spelling, laughed uproariously about the ‘subtext’ of his prose, yelling, “You may as well have written ‘ _Please let me propose to you at your earliest convenience,_ ’ Dameron!”) to Miss Kenobi in June, he receives but one more response in early August while he is docked at an English-friendly harbor on the continent. It becomes part of his treasured collection, and like the others, it is soon well-worn and frayed at the creases from where he ritually unfolds, reads, and folds the letter again before tucking it away into the front pocket of his coat, above his heart.

The next letter he receives comes only three weeks later and it is a surprise, and is not from Miss Kenobi; it is from his father’s steward. The news of Kes Dameron’s ailing health has Poe returning home a month early, and while an optimistic letter he receives on the way back to Yavin nearly eliminates the anxiety he holds for his father, very little can be done for the roaring monster of joy that celebrates in his chest.

Every mile, every foot, every inch covered by his boat, then his carriage, and then his horse, brings him closer to Miss Kenobi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next is Takodana  
> AKA How Badly Can Poe Dameron Mess Things Up By Accident?  
> AKA Who is Armitage Hux and Why is He Hitting on My Girl?


	4. The Ball at Takodana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commander Dameron makes a series of errors and doubts his place in Miss Kenobi's life.

Poe sees Miss Kenobi once before the ball at Takodana. Little does she know, but her handkerchief is a constant weight in his pocket; her letters are safely tucked away in his rooms at Yavin, locked in a box for safe-keeping with his mother’s ring.

She seems so happy to see him at Alderaan that Poe allows himself to hope as he scarcely has hoped before. The private smile on her face, the colour high on her cheeks – they all add to his nervous optimism. When she greets him in the front room, Ben at her side, it is as though the previous six months had never come to pass.

Miss Kenobi smiles at him once, and six months at sea fall away.

They do not speak much; she barely has the time to inquire after his father’s health, and then after the events of his voyage before Ben produces an absurd excuse to ride into town, forcing Poe to quit Miss Kenobi’s presence after one short hour. As they prepare to ride off, Poe fights the desire to push his friend from his horse; the urge is not helped by Ben’s smug face after he catches Poe staring over his shoulder at the windows of Alderaan.

“Did you know you can see into the front room from here?” Ben asks, most droll. “And look, there is Miss Kenobi.” He tips his hat to his sister, and she smiles back at him, and then teasingly waves to Poe.

Poe is too startled at having been caught staring by both of them that he turns his horse around and spurs his horse forward down the drive, ignoring the raucous laughter of his Judas of a best friend.

***

After the ball at Takodana, Poe fears he may have undone a year’s steady work towards convincing Miss Kenobi that he is a gentleman worthy of her time.

***

He is now twenty-six, and his father has begun to ask when Poe shall settle and marry. The next three months will be spent in the country, and Poe cannot ignore the lift in his heart when he imagines three months not even a half hour’s ride from Alderaan. He tells his father of Miss Kenobi and his powerful feelings for her, but even with his patient, loving father, he cannot quite explain his apprehension in asking for her hand.

She is so kind, so sweet to all – surely her regard for him cannot be considered unique or special, and after his consistent blunders in her presence over the course of the year, he believes himself to be merely an endearingly awkward figure in her life whom she feels a certain sort of affectionate pity for.

Miss Rey Kenobi is grace itself, beauty and honor and truth come to walk the earth and bless mankind in the guise of a beautiful woman.

Why would she accept a lowly sailor?

After he meets with her upon his return and her smile comes so easily, her eyes somehow softer in her regard of him than before, he _hopes_ that he was wrong in his assumption. His father only encourages him in that hope after he hears about Poe’s love for Miss Kenobi; the two have not had the pleasure of meeting, as the older Mr. Dameron’s health has been in decline of late, but he has heard that she is the brightest jewel of society, the prized lady of Somerset. So, Kes Dameron tells his son that his hope is well-placed, and that he should make her an offer soon.

Hope is a dangerous thing, Poe learns.

The ball is … a disaster.

Poe hopes to speak with Mr. Han Solo, in an attempt to gauge the older gentleman’s feelings towards him and his suitability for his family’s beloved ward, but the gentleman is already engaged in a card game when Poe arrives at Takodana. He secures Miss Kenobi’s third dance, and promises the next three to Miss Jessika Pava, the daughter of his father’s best friend, and the intended of Lieutenant Iolo, who remains at sea.

He and Miss Kenobi dance together at last, and Poe finds that he breathes easier, his chest freed of some unknown weight, with her so near. She laughs as freely as ever, and his already bewitched heart grows ever fonder of the clever beauty in his arms.

Upon the conclusion of their dance, he bows to her, but he is stopped by her sweet voice.

“My fourth dance is empty,” Miss Kenobi informs her, her cheeks pink from the dance, and perhaps nerves. Poe feels his heart slam into his chest like a staggering drunkard; surely she cannot be asking him for another dance? It is beyond his wildest dream.

“An utter shame. I would throw myself upon the sword, but I promised the fourth to Miss Pava.” Miss Kenobi turns to acknowledge his next partner, and he does not know if he feels disappointment or relief at the lack of irritation in her voice when she poses her next question.

“And who has your fifth?” _She does want to dance with me,_ he thinks wonderingly.

“Miss Pava again,” Poe tells her, frustration coiling through him – had Miss Kenobi left so many dances open out of hope that he would ask her to be his partner? He is a fool for not foreseeing this; but, he could not have predicted her desire to dance with him. “And the sixth.”

Miss Kenobi smirks at him: a new expression on her face. He does not think it his favourite of her expressions—there is something all too sad in her eyes when she says, “Three dances in a row with the same person? I congratulate you. She is a fine partner.”

Poe opens his mouth to correct her of her assumption – Miss Pava will marry Iolo when he returns with enough money to secure her hand – but Miss Kenobi has already excused herself and swept across the ballroom. She sits for the entirety of the number, but as far as he can tell, she never looks at his corner of the room.

“Distracted, Commander?” Miss Pava teases him, grinning, when he turns the wrong way for the third time.

“Maybe I am merely a bad dancer,” Poe suggests lightly. “Not much opportunity to dance on a ship.”

“I think you would find it easier to dance if you looked at your feet or at least the same part of the room that you were dancing in, and not at pretty young ladies in the corner.” Jessie, who he has known since she was four and he was eight, smiles at him most knowingly. He laughs despite his aggravated anxiety, and he forces himself to pay more attention to Jessie for the rest of the number. She does not particularly care, he knows, but still – she is a lady, and he promised her his time, and she deserves a distraction while she waits for news of Iolo’s fleet.

For the fifth number, he and Miss Pava are four couples down the line from Miss Kenobi and Mr. Draven. He makes light conversation with Jessie regarding her sisters and her father; but, he finds himself highly distracted by the tinkling, musical laughter of the Solo’s ward. She does not laugh with impropriety – it is perfectly within the volume and cadence of a young lady’s laugh – but it catches his attention effortlessly from across the room all the same simply because it is the laugh that has haunted his dreams for almost a year.

When he turns from his partner during a segment of the dance, Poe accidentally catches a glimpse of Miss Kenobi and Mr. Draven. He is almost twice her age, for heaven’s sake, thirty-five; and he is, almost certainly, showing signs of balding. Draven looks much like his father, a hard jaw and a build suited for the military, not the listless gentry, and his eyes carry uncomfortable secrets that Poe would rather not know, let alone have within ten feet of Rey Kenobi.

Still, she laughs, and Draven smiles back at her, pleased at entertaining such a handsome woman. Her laughter seems entirely genuine, and Poe feels a snarling monster erupt in his chest. She had mentioned Draven in a letter – does he court her seriously? Does she wish for him to court her?

As if sensing his thoughts, Miss Pava comments to him on his return, “Mr. Draven shows a particular interest in Miss Kenobi, but last I spoke to her, she found it rather an imposition and not a flattery.”

This settles the beast in his chest, and he smiles at Jessie thankfully. The rest of the dance, and the entirety of the sixth passes pleasantly enough, with Poe encouraging Miss Pava to speak of Lt. Iolo. Miss Kenobi does not dance the sixth – she truly had it open, and Poe curses himself for wondering if it was for his sake – and when he bows to Miss Pava, he spies the sunbeam to the side of the dance floor, laughing behind her hand with Miss Kun.

So desperate to talk to her, he does not even introduce himself or address the ladies when he approaches. Instead, he blurts out, “May I borrow Miss Kenobi?” The lady in question stares at him almost angrily, and Miss Kun hides another smile, this one at his expense, behind her hand.

“You may not.” Miss Kenobi’s voice is clipped and cool, and she turns to Miss Kun. Poe is adrift in his desolation; he had not expected so quick a rejection, not from a young lady whom he had at least considered a friend.

He misses whatever look was passed between the ladies in his despair, but Miss Kun assures him that she was just leaving, and walks away to talk to Commander Wexley, who has been sweet on her for over a year. Poe smiles at Miss Kun’s retreating form before returning his attention to Miss Kenobi.

Her expression is most impassive. “Yes, Commander?” Her short words cut him more effectively than any sword. Nerves erupt in his stomach.

“I was wondering if you had reserved any of the upcoming dances.”

“I have. Besides, your last partner is much more enjoyable than I am. Your flirtations are better spent elsewhere.”

“My –“ _Why does she say partner so derisively?_ “I danced with her Miss Kenobi, that is all.” The only true partner he wishes for is Miss Kenobi, surely that must be obvious. He does not think he has masterfully hidden his regard, not when his acquaintances, Miss Pava, Miss Lintra, Commander Wexley, and Ben included, tease him so mercilessly about it.

Poe is relieved to see a smile on her face, thinking she has understood his meaning. “It does not matter,” and his relief is furthered. “I only have one more free dance for the evening, and Mrs. Solo has just encouraged me to find a new person to meet, to see if I can charm any unwitting gentleman into making me an offer.”

With those simple words, his heart sinks, perhaps irreparably. “Surely she didn’t suggest –”

“You know me fairly well at this point, Commander. It will do me good to test my limited charms with a stranger. We can always talk after the dancing is over.” Agony, sheer agony courses through him. _She does not understand me – she does not see – but, how?_

“Miss Kenobi, it would be a great honor –”

Miss Kenobi straightens visibly. “Go back to Miss Pava, you’ll have better luck with her,” she dismisses him coldly, and he feels a sort of anger rise in his chest, now that her misunderstanding seems almost willful.

Iolo’s intentions with Miss Pava are no secret, so he does not feel he is betraying anyone’s trust when he tells her, more than a small amount of his anxiety leaking through and blending into irritation, “Miss Pava? Please understand that Miss Pava is being courted by another officer; Lieutenant Iolo. I dance with her while he is away, so she feels less lonely.”

Poe has miscalculated once more; she looks as though he has slapped her, and he remembers how little she knows of society, how much kinder he should be in correcting her, a sweet young lady.  “I was not aware, I regret to hear of Miss Pava’s separation from her love. It sounds most painful.” Her voice is small now, and he feels even more foolish. He opens his mouth to comfort her, but instead, he exposes himself without doubt.

“It is indeed painful, painful beyond measure, to be separated from the one you love.” Poe prays the moment it leaves his lips that she does not catch the extra meaning behind his words.

“Then it is for the best that I am destined to die an old maid, regardless of Mrs. Solo’s intentions tonight.”

“Surely some lucky man will eventually catch your eye, Miss Kenobi, if one hasn’t already.”

“The problem is not who catches my eye, Commander. The issue at hand is that I am not enough to catch someone’s eye; at least, not long enough for a serious attachment to occur. I am a nobody, with nothing. I have nothing to offer a man of any stature.”

 _You have everything to offer, sunbeam._ “I have been in your acquaintance for a year and a half, and I have long considered you one of the brightest people I know; but that was some of the most unforgivably foolish hogwash I have ever heard.” Miss Kenobi looks surprised at his candor, but then Armitage Hux approaches them.

Poe watches in abject horror as she promises to dance with the wealthiest, and one of the most pompous, bachelors in the county. Hux looks more an ass than ever at his success, and Poe weighs the merits of punching the man here in the middle of the assembly.

  _She cannot be serious; she must do this to torment me._ “Perhaps Mr. Hux has caught your eye, then? A stranger to ‘test your charms’ on?”

Miss Kenobi rears back in anger, much like a wild horse. There is fury in her eyes when he answers, and her following speech slays the monster roaring in Poe’s chest with its reassurance and also its alluring fire. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t even know why I said that, I was only teasing you. No; Armitage Hux is the son of a Baron, and it would be a grievous error for me to reject an offer as harmless as a dance. Mrs. Solo herself impressed upon me the necessity of her family staying in the Hux’s good graces. I do this for the family that has taken me in, and for no other reason.”

His relief is short-lived, for she adds irately: “Besides, I danced the third number with you, but you did not accuse me of an untoward regard for yourself.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Poe tells her this sincerely, and he is sure his love for her shines brighter in his eyes than any of the lights at the ball. He cannot hide his regard for her, not anymore. Wexley seems to be aware that Poe is about to make a fool of himself, and interrupts them under some thinly veiled pretense. Miss Kenobi excuses herself and leaves for fresh air, and Poe endures the teasing of Wexley– Poe adamantly denies any unbrotherly interest in the lady – for ten minutes ( _“And when can I congratulate the happy couple?”_ Wexley asks, leading to Poe’s threat to stomp on his toes) before the dance Miss Kenobi promised to Hux is called.

While he has often thought Miss Kenobi to be the handsomest woman in his acquaintance, there is no denying it now – she is well and truly a goddess, incandescent in the low light of the ballroom, her skirts billowing about her gracefully as she spins around the room in the arms of Armitage Hux. Poe curses inwardly at the striking image they make: Hux’s flaming red hair balanced so well with her chestnut locks; his long legs striding elegantly as he effortlessly leads the beautiful woman around the room. It is made all the more maddening by the look of sheer, inexplicable delight on Miss Kenobi’s face.

Poe could have borne the elegance of their figures, the grace of their movements, the well-matched nature of their heights, if it were not for the joy evident in her countenance and laugh. If she laughed distractingly with Draven, she laughs to torture Poe now.

He stares, half in horror and half in awe, as their steps become increasingly agile. More than one other dancer stumbles as they stare at the handsome couple. The waltz nears its end, and Poe hears Wexley grunt and remark, “Maybe I should save my congratulations for another couple, then?” It causes the blood to boil in his veins at the same time a stone sinks in his stomach. No matter what he fancied he saw in Miss Kenobi’s eyes when they spoke last week, it is nothing compared to the regard she shows Hux now.

The lady catches his eyes as she bows to Hux, and she smiles at him briefly; he knows not what she sees on his face – perhaps he looks half-mad at the realization that he has lost her – for she startles and looks away quickly.

Poe seeks out Ben, but he finds his friend absent from all corners of the ball. Instead, he is met with Miss Tallissan Lintra, who has long been “Tallie” to him due to their family’s proximity and closeness during childhood. She looks distraught, and he escorts her away from the noise of the ball, hoping to spare her the embarrassment of crying publicly. They find a room with access to the gardens – the doors are even open for guests to explore the magnificent grounds of Takodana in the September air – which will give them an excuse for being alone if someone stumbles upon them.

“Do you wish to speak about it, Tallie?” He asks her, his distress over Miss Kenobi’s flirtation with Hux forgotten in the face of his friend’s suffering.

She shakes her head miserably, but then wipes her eyes and speaks. “Do you know why Ben refuses to speak to me tonight?”

Ah, Ben. “My friend is a fool, Tallie,” he assures her. “Believe me, he has often spoken most highly of you – his inability to speak to pretty women is a personal issue, and not one caused by yourself. You are very easy to talk to, which he would realize if he stopped getting in his own way.” Poe knows quite a bit about getting in the way of oneself.

“Thank you.” She smiles at him with tears in her eyes. “I just wish I knew how to assure him that I would not treat him ill. I am not Bazine Netal, and I would not attempt to ruin his happiness, if he would just forget his damned foolish pride.”

“Miss Netal injured him worse than that pistol did,” Poe reminds her gently. “He is full of romantic sensibilities, and he always has been. People forget that beneath his large and powerful frame there lies a heart of a poet. Ben is a kind man, a good man, and he feels most passionately when induced to love. Perhaps he is aware of the uncomfortable fact that if he talked to you tonight, he would be in great danger of proposing.”

Tallie rolls her eyes but laughs, tears no longer threatening her countenance.

“Here,” Poe says gamely. “Let us practice as if I were Ben, and you were Tallie.”

“But I _am_ Tallie, sir,” she says, her voice droll.

“Lord above, you are both so set on teasing me, it is a wonder you are not married already,” Poe smirks. She smiles, pleased, and he continues. “I shall be Ben, and we shall discuss the room. Here.” He deepens his voice purposefully when he next speaks, which draws another laugh from Tallie. “Good evening, Miss Lintra.” He bows, rounding his shoulders out in an attempt to make them broader.

“Good evening, Mr. Solo.” She curtsies prettily. “Is not the room grand tonight?”

“Indeed,” Poe nods with a haughty look on his face. “But rather not so grand as this book of poetry I have been reading for three weeks. I find Sir Walter Scott captures the glorious depths of misery accomplished by the Germans rather well, do you not agree?” He pretends to hand Tallie a book.

“You are most correct, Mr. Solo,” she says primly. “But I rather prefer Thomas Campbell’s reflection on the nature of hope. It was most enlightening.”

“Dear Lord, Tallie.” Poe breaks character to snort. “You know I am a sailor – I haven’t actually _read_ any poetry in ten years.”

“You must be the shame of the armada, Commander Dameron.” Tallie smiles at him warmly, all misery clearly forgotten; she has always been a lively woman, and one of his favourite friends. “But what shall we do after we discuss poetry?”

Poe leans forward to whisper in her ear, once more mimicking his friend’s baritone, “Why, Miss Lintra, then you charm Ben Solo and convince him never to forsake you at a ball again.”

She pinches his side, and he rears back laughing, full and clear. Tallie laughs with him, and Poe reaches out to stroke her arm comfortingly, about to offer her a turn around the gardens so they can both clear their heads, when the unmistakable sound of a door slamming shut resounds in the room.

Poe’s heart pounds in his chest; the moment that just passed between he and Tallie is far too familiar – he has been involved in far more compromising positions at balls (and sometimes with a lady’s skirts up, and his own coat lying forgotten) but he has always been confident that he and his partner would not be caught. This was an entirely innocent moment, but he has been caught anyway, by none other than Miss Kenobi, who has her back to them, her neck entirely flushed red at the supposed impropriety.

Tallie looks at him, concerned, but he only has eyes for Miss Kenobi now. “Miss Kenobi?” his friend asks, seeming to understand that Poe’s voice is lost. The Solo’s ward turns around, looking stricken, mortified.  

Still, she manages a polite smile, clearly not wanting to upset Tallie. “I beg your pardon, Miss Lintra, I did not know you were involved in a private conversation. I merely wished to pass through and visit the gardens.” A shaking finger points at the open doors behind Tallie and Poe, an expression of utter misery affixed on her lovely face.

Poe cannot imagine what goes through her mind, not when her eyes are so downcast; he wonders at how poorly she has misunderstood the situation.

“Miss Kenobi.” He can only manage to say her name before his heart leaps to his throat and prohibits further speech.

“I will be out of your way, now.” Her smile does not look natural. “Sir. Ma’am.” She practically sprints past them, fleeing down the stairs and into the tangle of hedges below.

“You love her, don’t you?” Miss Lintra looks at him, keen observation in her eyes. Poe does not know what is on his face that makes his heart so evident. He does not deny it, not to Tallie, who knows him so well. He has denied it to all but his own father, but he cannot deny it, not when indecision tears at his heart, indecision of whether or not to follow her and beg her to understand. Embarrassment clouds his judgment, and shame, and exhaustion. Was she not just flirting with Hux while dancing? _But that was dancing. You are a fool to think touching a woman intimately in a room behind a closed door and flirting harmlessly with a dance partner indicate the same level of regard._

“What should I do, Tallie?” Poe whispers, his voice hoarse as he stares out into the hedges that have swallowed the form of the woman he loves.

“Go to her,” she says simply. “Go, now, and tell her the truth. Tell her nothing untoward transpired between us, and convince her that you love her. She should know. I have seen how she looks at you, Poe. I do not think she would find the sentiment so disgusting.”

Poe feels a strange disbelief pour through him. He gives Tallie a quizzical look, but she pushes him playfully. “Go, before she clears the grounds. Miss Kenobi is awfully quick for someone wearing petticoats.” Tallie smiles at him encouragingly, and Poe bows and exits through the doors as fast as he can.

Somehow he manages to find her amongst the hedges; she had not run far, and she leans against the shrubbery for support, trying to catch her breath, looking deeply upset. Tears shine in her eyes, transformed into silvery pools of agony in the moonlight.

 “Miss Kenobi!” he calls out, still running, probably looking the lovestruck fool he is. _This is dangerous,_ his mind snarls. _You should not be alone with her; think of the rumors._ His heart does not care. He must speak with her.  

“Commander Dameron.” Miss Kenobi makes no move to straighten up, but merely looks to the heavens as if asking God for strength.

“What you saw back there, she – I –” Poe cannot formulate the words, and he silences as he struggles to compose himself away from anxiety.

“It’s alright, Commander. Your secret is safe with me.” She smiles at him so kindly, his angel, clearly worried for him despite her own distress.

“No, Miss Kenobi –” Poe steps closer to her, wanting to be near her once more, remembering her warmth in his arms only hours ago on the dance floor. She raises a hand to stop him, and he halts obediently. He would follow any order she gave him.

 “Stop, I implore you.” Her voice is ragged, and her hands, _dear God,_ her hands are bleeding from grasping at the pointed leaves behind her.

“Miss Kenobi, you’re – you’re bleeding.” Poe is pushing her into those very thorns by his proximity, and he rocks back on his heels, trying to give her more room, more security in the moment, even as his heart screams at him to gather her in his arms and not let her make any more mistaken assumptions regarding his love for her.

She sounds strangely calm when she answers. “So I am. But, Commander, I assure you: I have no intention of ruining Miss Lintra’s honor, or telling others of your relationship. Do not worry, Commander. I do not judge either of you. I wish you both happiness.” Miss Kenobi loses some of her composure towards the end of her speech, and her face shifts into one of misery. Her hand covers her mouth as if trying to stop herself from continuing; and she stands up straight and moves to pass him.

He cannot let her leave, not like this, not when she does not know of his passion for her. Without thinking, he catches her by the arm, trying to keep her here, and says, “Rey—” He realizes his mistake immediately. Poe is not in an position to call her by her Christian name; he is certainly not in a position to touch a lady without permission. She was angry before, but now terror has joined her expression. Before he can apologize or release her – his muscles have frozen treacherously, making him seem more a cad – she corrects him.

“It is Miss Kenobi.” His heart shatters as she rips her arm away from his grip. He had forgotten to loosen his fingers in his horror, and she cries out in pain. Poe feels monstrous at having injured her, and he releases her. He will never touch her again, not when he so clearly hurt her without thought, without control of himself. In his ridiculous desire to convince her of his love, all he has accomplished is injuring Rey. _Miss Kenobi,_ he corrects himself automatically. _She will never be Rey to you, you complete and utter ass._

The agony of the moment strikes him like lightning, all the thoughts and regrets coursing through him in less than three seconds. Miss Kenobi continues, tears in her eyes assuredly caused by his injury of her arm: “You may call your lady by her first name, but you do not call me by mine. She may be Tallissan to you, or even Tallie, but I am Miss Kenobi, an orphan, a ward, a burden; and you are Commander Dameron, a war hero, a gentleman, and apparently, a man engaged elsewhere. Do not forget the difference in our stations; God knows I can’t.”

“Miss Kenobi.” _Look at me, please, see how my soul cries out for you, see how I have loved you for almost a year. Take my sword and cut my heart out, for it is of no use to me without you by my side. Please, forgive me, please, I never wish to hurt you, and I fear I have hurt you twice tonight._

“Goodnight, Commander.” Miss Kenobi’s lovely face is marked by a tear, and then another. He has made her weep; he is worse than all the devils in Hell. “Do not follow me. I will not betray your confidence, so please allow me my privacy.”

When she disappears into the maze, he stays rooted where he stands, frozen in the spot where he has perhaps destroyed any hope he had for a future with Miss Kenobi.

He has undone the work of a year; Poe wonders if she will allow him to rebuild their connection once more.

While he stands, petrified, where she left him, he swears to God in Heaven, and every pagan god that may be listening with a sympathetic ear, that he will dedicate himself even more completely to the glorious duty of making Miss Kenobi smile. He has seen her cry at his expense tonight, and he fears that another moment like this will surely kill him where he stands.

***

“Did you quarrel with my sister at Takodana?” Ben asks him the following week. They are at Alderaan, and Miss Kenobi had practically fled the room upon Poe’s arrival ten minutes prior.

“We have had no reason to quarrel,” Poe says evasively. They certainly do not have a reason to quarrel, as she had mistaken a moment between friends for one between lovers and then refused to listen to his bumbling attempt to reassure her. “Why, did she say something?” _Does she still speak of me? Do I have even the most remote chance of winning her over?_

“No.” Ben fixes him with a stern look. “She has said nothing. She also said nothing the night of the ball, when I found her weeping in the hedges.”

This is the question that has haunted him for days. The tears had begun in his presence even before he had grabbed her unthinkingly, and the true mystery of their source remains, as she had denied him access to her thoughts. _She cried, but for what purpose? Why would she cry at the sight of me with another? Did she think I was angry at her?_ When Poe does not answer, Ben continues, and Poe remembers how merciless a soldier his friend had been, how dogged he had been with opponents, how rarely he had lost a fight. “She insisted that no harm had been done to her virtue, but she was so heartbroken I could not be certain she was honest; and there were scratches on her palms. So. I ask you, and I would like for you to be honest with me, or I’ll run you through here and now. Did you injure my sister in any way that night, or do you know of a person who did?”

Poe thinks he will be sick. “She ran from me at the ball,” he answers, feeling bile in his throat at the implication that he would ever harm Miss Kenobi, especially in that way. _But you did harm her; you surely bruised her arm when you grabbed her so familiarly._ He forces himself to continue, in an attempt to explain. “She came across a private moment, and she fled. I followed her to assure her that nothing had transpired between me and the lady, to reduce the offense to her sensibilities,” _and to assure her that I love no other but her,_ Poe thinks to himself, “but she would not hear it, and ran further into the maze despite my protestations. That is all that happened.”

Ben nods, satisfied, and ends the conversation. Poe sits in the silence uncomfortably, his heart mangled with the fear that Miss Kenobi is lost to him forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: "No One Invited You, Hux" (AKA The Riding Accident AKA Poe worries that someone has stolen the heart of his beloved)


	5. Attentions Diverted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux courts Miss Kenobi; a riding accident occurs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> several scenes share dialogue from scenes in F&F-- the first time Hux calls on Rey, and the dialogue from the riding accident (but Poe POV obvi)

The next months prove to be total agony.

As September bleeds into the changing colours of October, Poe splits his time between Yavin and Alderaan almost evenly. He spends what feels like every other day riding with Ben or walking to the nearby estate; all to catch a glimpse of Miss Kenobi, who has become a ghost in the great house.

“Miss Kenobi is not feeling well,” Ben says one day mid-October after he spied her on the landing and then heard the distant thud of her bedroom door. Poe nods, feeling anxious, a sentiment not helped by the frown on his friend’s face as he looks up the stairs at the place where Miss Kenobi briefly occupied moments ago.

“Please send her my regards,” Poe says faintly.

Soon the wet chill of November overtakes them, and Poe sees Miss Kenobi more frequently, if only because she seeks the warmth of the drawing room, where he and Ben spend afternoons in discussion. She sits in the corner and reads more often than not; Poe smiles to see her bring in her embroidery or her drawing, but as soon as Mrs. Solo quits the room, Miss Kenobi tosses those feminine pursuits aside with an audible sigh of relief and grabs a book that had been hiding under her yarn or her paints.

Ben catches him smiling every time, and every time he quirks his brow but does not comment.

“What are you reading today, Miss Kenobi?” Poe asks her towards the end of the month. He has attempted similar conversations with her in recent weeks, and he can sometimes garner a response from her in this fashion; she is so excited about the worlds contained in her novels that she cannot help but answer. And then Poe can hear the music of her voice once more, and the agony in his soul borne of her pointed snubs is soothed.

He wants to kneel at her feet, beg her for mercy – does she not understand that he has but few months in England each year? Does she understand her cruelty in denying him access to her thoughts and her laughter when he sits in such proximity to her – does she realize that she wounds him by withholding her light from his wasted soul and creating this unnecessary distance between them?

So, he asks after her novels because he is not in a position to ask after her heart or spirit.

“Goethe,” Miss Kenobi answers simply, looking up and smiling at him before returning to her novel. The smile warms him like nothing else in this world does, so he cannot help his desire to prolong his exposure to it.

“The Sorrows of Young Werther?” Poe asks curiously. “That was always my favourite, too.”

“Really?” Miss Kenobi closes her book carefully and sets it in her lap; he is beyond relieved to see some animation in her lovely face, which she has held stiffly in his presence since Takodana. “I adore it. I know it is so tragic, and so … German … but I find that he captures the essence behind one’s true self so profoundly: ‘ _I am proud of my heart alone, it is the sole source of everything, all our strength, happiness and misery. All the knowledge I possess everyone else can acquire, but my heart is all my own.’_ That idea gave me such strength in the days following my uncle’s death, when I feared I had nothing left in this world. That is, until Mr. and Mrs. Solo took me in.” Miss Kenobi’s eyes fill with tears at the mention of her former guardian and the kindness of her new family.

Poe blinks, startled at her open revelation, and even she looks taken aback by her own candor. Ben looks between the two of them, mouth half-open, but Poe lurches forward, so glad to have heard her speak freely, at the same time his heart breaks for her loss: “I always favoured the lines: ‘ _Sometimes I don’t understand how another can love her, is allowed to love her, since I love her so completely myself, so intensely, so fully, grasp nothing, know nothing, have nothing but her! I possess so much, but my love for her absorbs it all. I possess so much, but without her I have nothing._ ’ I possess a great deal of sympathy for Werther and his affections.” Poe knows he has overstepped his boundaries, has said too much – he can practically feel the burn from Ben’s ferocious glare on the side of his face because how can Miss Kenobi not understand the meaning behind those words?

Before Ben can stab him or throw him from the room violently, Miss Kenobi pulls herself up on the chair and grasps her volume once more. “There we cannot agree, Commander Dameron,” she says, voice full of unknown emotion as she clutches the book; her northern accent comes through more with each passing word, and Poe is utterly entranced. “Werther does not have my sympathy. He made Lotte love him, knowing that she would never be able to marry him. She loved him, but was torn between that powerful love and her duty to her husband and family. And when he took his own life, distraught by the knowledge that he could not possess her in the manner he wanted, her own heart expired from the despair caused by the loss of her beloved friend. No; do not have pity for Werther. Pity Charlotte, and all she was denied.” With that, Miss Kenobi stands and excuses herself, sweeping from the room so quickly, Poe does not even have time to instruct his muscles to stand and bow to her.

Poe stares after her in disbelief and is startled by the sound of rhythmic clapping. He looks over at Ben, who brings his hands together every three seconds, his scarred eyebrow lifted in an impossibly haughty fashion. “Bravo, Commander,” Ben remarks still clapping. “Bravo.”

He cannot manage a smart comment in return; instead his mind replays Miss Kenobi’s words ad infinitum, unable to discern her meaning or the reason for the passion behind her words.

***

After her brief outburst, Miss Kenobi limits herself to polite responses, one or two sentences in length, and Poe feels himself going mad once more.

One December afternoon, she sits near the window, the red in her hair still caught by the weak sun streaming in behind her. Miss Kenobi is a vision in winter, even as she is a goddess of spring and summer, and Poe finds his attention drifting from the conversation with Ben, drifting always back to Rey Kenobi, unable to ignore the pull to her.

She has no such difficulty in ignoring him; she had politely rebuffed his attempts at conversation not even half an hour before, and Poe had sat disquieted for some time before he was even able to engage in conversation.

He is about to ask Miss Kenobi if she would like to take a turn about the grounds with him and Ben – it is not terribly cold today, and he thinks the fresh air might improve all of their moods – when Mrs. Solo enters and says some truly dreadful words:

“Mr. Hux is here to call upon you.” Ben’s mother smiles at Miss Kenobi, who does not look up from her book (Sermons today, and Poe cannot remark upon sermons, as his ancestral house is Catholic, and he barely meets the requirements to be Anglican in loyalty to them).

“Did you hear me, my dear?” Mrs. Solo looks concerned, and stands closer to her ward.

 “I heard you, ma’am. You said that Mr. Hux was here to call upon Ben.” Miss Kenobi closes her book and frowns at her brother and then her guardian.

“No, you mistake me, Rey. Mr. Hux is here to call upon _you_.” Damn the man. Damn him to Hell.

Rey stands fluidly at that, and looks completely shocked. Her surprise calms Poe somewhat, as the meeting could not be pre-arranged or expected due to her reaction. “Here? To call upon…He’s here for me?” She ends in a high-pitched voice, colour high on her cheeks.

“Yes, Rey, come on.” Mrs. Solo takes her ward by the hand and leads her to the door. Ben smirks at the way Miss Kenobi’s heels dig into the carpet, while she tries to tug her hand free. Poe watches in horror – it’s like a lamb being led to slaughter. He hopes that if Miss Kenobi protests enough, Mrs. Solo will tell Hux that she is not at home. Hell. He’ll tell him if he needs to.

“But ma’am. Mrs. Solo, I cannot greet him like this. I do not think I am properly dressed.”

In honesty, she is resplendent in green and silver, a warm dress that is matched well by the pretty ribbon in her hair. Poe does not think he can stomach the implication that Miss Kenobi protests not on the basis of her distaste for the gentleman, but rather her fear that she is not well presented enough to please him. Why ever should she wish to please Armitage Hux, unless she favoured him? It will not be borne.

“Nonsense, my dear. Mr. Hux is here to see you, not your dress.” Miss Kenobi laughs at that, and it is agony to hear her laugh for the first time in months, at the idea of another gentleman courting her.

She hands her book to her brother and whispers, “Wish me luck.”

“I’d sooner wish Hux luck,” Ben says with sheer amusement. Miss Kenobi moves to follow Mrs. Solo out the door, but first she locks eyes with Poe.

Poe knows his agony is on his face; he feels as though he is burning alive. Miss Kenobi – will she so soon be Mrs. Hux?

 _Don’t be ridiculous, man,_ he scolds himself. _One chaperoned meeting is not an engagement._ He needs to do something, anything, to relieve himself of this anxiety, so he stands up clumsily and bows to Miss Kenobi. _Why do I not show her this respect more often?_ He wonders. _Why does she look so surprised at the display of manners? I am a fool._

 “Miss Kenobi,” Poe murmurs, hoping his love for her is evident in the three syllables. He hopes she hears the question, _would you allow me to call on you, were I a more suitable gentleman?_  

“Commander Dameron,” is her response, and while there are no secret messages evident in it, he delights in the way his name sounds on her tongue; it has never sounded so fine. When she smiles at him, his heart pounds in his chest. He loves her; he loves her, he loves her, and it cannot be hidden, not by the joy he knows lights his face in response. All too quickly, she is gone from the room, and the door closes behind her.

He spends half an hour in agony, waiting for her to return. Ben rolls his eyes more than once, but continues to write a letter to Admiral Ackbar regarding his father’s business with the Navy. Poe can bear it no longer; he stands rapidly, intending to walk about the grounds. When he opens the door that leads into the front hall, however, he sees something he immediately wishes he had not been audience to:

Mr. Hux bows over Miss Kenobi’s happily offered hand, and he kisses it with perfect charm and grace. Miss Kenobi smiles flirtatiously, and when Mr. Hux takes his leave, she stands in the front entrance to watch him depart, a faint giggle escaping her perfect lips. Poe startles back quickly, not wanting to be caught out as a voyeur, and returns to his seat looking ill.

“Are you quite alright, Dameron?” Ben sounds truly concerned, but he cannot press the issue when Miss Kenobi returns to reclaim her book.

She teases them, something about their sitting still for so long, and normally it would have made Poe laugh: distantly, he understands that he is pleased that she talks to him freely, but he cannot dismiss the image of her and Hux.

Poe stands and bows to her once more, and she returns the gesture, smilingly.

While she sits back in her chair and reads, she hums quietly, a private grin on her face. Poe cannot look upon her joy, joy caused by another man. It is a pain he did not fully understand before now.

He stares out the window, and he hears Ben ask after Hux.

Poe barely pays attention to her response, or Ben’s following question, but he cannot ignore her lengthy speech about the many delightful qualities of Armitage Hux. No. It will not be borne. Not if he is to keep his sanity.

“Pardon me,” he stands and bows to Miss Kenobi. “I must leave. I did not know the hour was so late.” He notes Miss Kenobi protesting his departure, her face lively once more, but a ripping pain in his chest tells him that he cannot stay, not if he wishes to maintain his appearance as a gentleman. Soon he is on his horse, and he is riding as though the devils of Hell were on his heels.

That night, after Hux made his intentions clear, Poe spends some time in his rooms, composing a letter that will never be sent.

_Miss Kenobi,_

_My heart is torn between a desire to see you happy, and a desire to see you at my side. Are the two really so incompatible that I could not see both desires accomplished?_

_I fear I have lost you forever. Like Werther, am I damned to watch the woman I love become joined to another? If this event takes place, know that I shall never marry, for I will never love another so completely, so passionately as I love you, my sunbeam, goddess divine._

_I have resolved to visit Alderaan less frequently, lest I encounter the one you are growing to love. But I do not know for how long I can stay away; you are the shore, Rey, and I am the tide, destined to return to you time and again, bound for eternity to seek your presence. You are the true north, the magnetic pull that guides me home – I am your vassal, your servant. I would beg you for nothing more than your time, but that would be a deceit. I want more than your attention, Rey. I want you to be my wife._

_Yours, truly,_

_Poe_

***

He does not return to Alderaan for two weeks, but when he does, Miss Kenobi seems in better spirits than before. Poe breathes more easily as the months wear on and no offer is made; she and Hux dance together at assemblies, but no more than she dances with him or Ben. Mr. Hux does visit Alderaan several times, and the Solos do dine with Armitage’s family, but they rarely spend time by themselves. He knows he does not act the gentleman when Hux appears when he is also at Alderaan – the smug look on his face when he takes Miss Kenobi away for a chaperoned walk or a conversation in a different room nearly drives Poe to challenge the pompous bastard. He withholds, though, because Miss Kenobi seems so pleased by the polite attentions of Hux, even if she does not show him a particular romantic interest in the gentleman.

He can survive this, Poe tells himself. Rey will not marry Hux. His worst fear will not come true.

Poe does not truly understand fear, he comes to realize on a warm day in February. Hux calls upon Rey and horseback riding is suggested as an activity for all. Poe fights the urge to scream in frustration when Mrs. Solo declares that he and Ben can chaperone Hux and Miss Kenobi.

 _I do not wish to chaperone a courting of her,_ Poe wants to snarl, and rave, and tear at his hair. _I wish to be the one courting her._ For the life of him, he cannot decide why he is not officially courting Miss Kenobi; he has a fair guess, though. She will never love him, not after the mistakes he has made, the blunders, the injuries and slights to her person and honor.

Poe watches as Hux mounts his horse and begins to show off, and he rolls his eyes. Miss Kenobi looks doubtfully up at her own horse; it is tacked for sidesaddle, and Poe smiles, realizing that she must be used to riding in a more masculine fashion. The idea of her astride a horse in such a manner does _improper_ things to his person, so he desperately recalls his naval training to calm himself before asking if she requires assistance. Miss Kenobi nods, looking grieved, and Poe does not think twice before kneeling down and offering himself as a step for her.

Miss Kenobi settles herself on her horse and laughs, saying, “I hope I did not crush you.”

In fact, Poe was trying to hide his surprise at having barely felt her weight at all. He knows he will feel the imprint of her shoe for all eternity, as it is the closest they have been, her hand briefly resting on his shoulder as she leapt upward gracefully.

Poe is dangerously close to exposing his love for her once more, so he answers, "Of course you did not, Miss Kenobi; you are lighter than air itself." He refuses to analyze the quizzical look she gives him; instead he leaps aboard Winged One, or ‘Wing,’ his Thoroughbred, and induces him to move quickly past the rest of the party.

Riding is so often an easy distraction for him: but, it barely allows him to ignore the world around him today, not when Miss Kenobi is so near, not when this moment so closely aligns with a dream he had of her when he was still aboard his ship, a dream where she wore the ring intended for his wife. Poe shakes his head to clear it, racing up onto the field they have decided to explore.

He knows he has extended himself too far past the party, so he turns Wing around to rejoin them. As he rides up, he sees Hux lean over and foolishly startle Miss Kenobi’s horse. The creature balks, and Miss Kenobi, clearly not used to riding sidesaddle, cannot control the steed. Instead, the horse runs forward for several paces, bucking wildly, and Poe knows, heart stalling in his chest, what is about to happen moments before it does.

Later, he would reflect that in the moment before she fell, Miss Kenobi seemed well aware of her fate too, and instead of looking terrified, she looked mildly, almost amusingly, irritated.

Miss Kenobi is thrown violently from her horse, and as Poe gallops forward, he sees Hux going to catch the sprinting, rider-less beast, and Ben pulling up on his own horse in terror.

He swears he feels the impact, the crack resounding through the air and forcing the breath from his own lungs. She lies as still as death when he dismounts, fear coursing through him like he has never felt before.

“Bugger,” he snarls, running forward. “Fuck it all.” Poe has never cursed so viciously off his ship; he hopes God will forgive him for the lapse in control.

Miss Kenobi does not move, but he hears a rattling breath which slightly allays his fears. They cannot rule out an injury to her spine, and he sees Ben, pale as the moon, on his horse ten feet away.

"R-- Miss Kenobi, are you alright?" Poe curses himself at the near familiarity, but then he curses himself double: hang propriety, the woman may be close to death. He stumbles forward and kneels at her side, relieved to hear her coughing, relieved to see her move her hands and feet. The breath must have been knocked from her body, and she is assuredly bruised. Her eyes open at long last, and while she cannot focus on his face, she does seem to notice him. Not blinded, then, and not paralyzed. Poe is still terrified, muscles locked with adrenaline.   

She gasps a question, and Poe blinks, thinking he misheard. “I beg your pardon?” He asks, his hands hovering anxiously over her person, not wanting to injure her further by pulling her up into his arms and cradling her near like he so desperately wishes.

"The horse?" Miss Kenobi rasps out, and then groans in pain. "Is she okay?" Poe looks up and sees Hux holding the reins of the now calmed horse.

"Yes, Hux caught the horse. Are you really asking after the horse?" He laughs weakly in relief that she is in well enough spirits to talk, but also in disbelief that her chief concern is for the animal that harmed her.

Well. Really the fault lies with Hux, Poe thinks murderously.

“I will ride for the doctor!” Ben shouts, already turned towards the road. Poe watches him gallop away, but is distracted when Miss Kenobi moans in pain. He runs a hand along her forehead, and when she shifts, he is relieved to see a lack of blood on the ground beneath her. She may survive this yet. It does little to calm the racing of his heart, and he gently slides his arms underneath her slight figure. She cannot stay here, not when Alderaan is a mere ten minute walk.

“What are you doing, Commander?” Hux approaches, his face reddened in anger. Poe fixes him with a cold glare, and stands defiantly, holding Miss Kenobi tenderly to his body even as his spirit coils in rage.

“I am taking her back to Alderaan, so she does not have to wait for the doctor on a dirt path,” Fury is the only thing he knows, and it colours his voice most powerfully. He will strike Hux down if he interferes. Miss Kenobi needs to rest, and this man could have _killed_ her in his stupidity. “Now, be useful and stay out of my way. You’ve done enough for today, I think.”

He strides off without waiting for a further question from the idiot behind him. Poe does not worry that Winged One will run off; he rather laughs at the idea of Hux trying to corral his spirited horse. No doubt Wing will follow Poe instead; indeed, when he looks over his shoulder, he sees his horse already ignoring Hux’s attempt to lure it to him, and it has begun to walk down the path after his master.

There is a whimper of pain from the woman in his arms, and his attention is intensely focused on her. “Are you alright, Miss Kenobi?”

 

“Yes. You don’t have to carry me, I can walk.” Her voice is so, so impossibly weak. _Like hell you can walk._

“You do not have to.” Poe swallows against the intensity of his emotion. She is so light in his arms, her body so warm, so close to his own. He could never have imagined this proximity, and how he loathes that it came at the cost of her personal safety and well-being

“Just as well. My head hurts something fierce.” Poe smiles at her bravery but shushes her nonetheless. She should save her energy. The next few moments pass in peace, and when he looks down at her, he sees that she is squinting up at him, deep thought obvious on her lovely face.

“Do I have something displeasing on my face, my lady?” He asks in a teasing voice, hoping to encourage her to respond. He has seen enough head injuries in his time in the navy to know that she should stay awake until examined.

Miss Kenboi blinks before responding, almost sleepily: “Quite the opposite. Did you know that you are a terribly handsome man?”

 _What?_ Poe feels himself flush at the compliment, obviously accidentally given. He hopes his humor will hide the delight roaring in his chest. “You must be grievously injured indeed, Miss Kenobi.”

“Not so injured that I lost my sight. But I do fear that focusing on one object is proving to be a most difficult task.” Her speech is slurred and her eyes close. His heart tightens at the sight. Miss Kenobi must be in such pain, and here he is, clinging to her words that slip out in her dazed state as though she were the one rescuing him.

“Rest, then, Miss Kenobi.” He tightens his arms around her, wanting her to feel as secure as possible.

“I wonder where your jacket is?” She asks, her nose pressing into his chest, which is bare of his coat. Poe breathes through his nose patiently, trying to calm his roaring spirit before answering.

“I left it with Hux and the horses, my lady.”

“I said that out loud? Did I say anything else out loud?”

“No, Miss Kenobi. Why, was there something else you wanted to tell me?” Poe wishes another confession may pass through her lips; it is cowardly of him, but if she secretly has thought him handsome for all these months, perhaps there are other opinions he could be privy to in this moment. He is a cad, and he reminds himself that she is injured.

“No.” She buries her face somehow even more into his chest, and Poe gasps at their proximity. He has shared much less innocent touches with women, with far fewer layers between them, but this, this intimacy, threatens to destroy his senses. “No, sir, nothing else.”

 

“I beseech you to rest, Miss Kenobi. Do not let me tease you any longer.” They have arrived at the house, and he moves even more quickly up the stairs. “Open the doors!” he roars, forgetting that his beloved’s head aches fiercely. It draws a wince from her, and he is immediately contrite: “I apologize, Miss Kenobi. Once I get you settled I shall speak only in whispers until the doctor arrives.”

“You swear it?” Poe smiles at her fondly as they enter the house, a servant opening the door quickly. He sweeps towards the front room.

“I swear it.” _I swear to serve you in all things, to attend to you for all my days, to love you most singularly, so long as you allow it._

“You’ll not leave me?”

The strange sadness in her voice has him answer without inhibition. “Never, Miss Kenobi.”

He lays her down as gently as he can upon the couch, and she tenses in agony at the shift.

“Are you still feeling alright, my lady?” His anxiety flares, as he worries that he has exacerbated her injuries somehow.

Miss Kenobi lifts a slender arm and covers her face with it as she moans, “No. No, I’m not alright. I’ve changed my mind. You must leave me here to expire, Commander. I refuse to die with an audience.”

She means it in jest, he knows, but the terror that rings in his heart and his mind has him lurching forward to catch her delicate wrist in his roughened hand. “Do not say such a thing, sunbeam.” The agony is evident in his voice, and he curses himself at the familiar name. Poe releases her after a moment, already missing the warmth of her fair skin under his fingers.

“Sunbeam?” Miss Kenobi’s eyes do not open, and he is half-glad at it; he does not wish to see the derision in her face as he takes advantage of her sudden indisposition to foist his attentions upon her.

“Sorry. I have considered using that name with you for a while; it seems most fitting, but I did not want to risk more unwanted familiarity.” _You are a goddess, you are the sun, you are the only star in the sky. I am blinded by my love for you; surely you must know this by now. Today must have shown you, at least. No head injury could have you be ignorant of my feelings for you after this display._ Hux at the very least must have realized that another loves Miss Kenobi.

“I like it,” she says cheerily, waving her hand around in a silly way. Miss Kenobi giggles, as she is clearly still in shock from her injury.  “I give you my permission to use it whenever you see fit, Commander.” This causes the breath to catch in his throat, in a much more pleasant manner than it had when she had been thrown. Shyly, she adds, “But perhaps maybe just when we are alone.”

“You do not mind so much, being alone with me?” The hope is too much to bear.

“I do not mind at all, Commander Dameron.” There is a moment of silence, a pause, before she says, “But perhaps your beloved might.”

“My beloved?” Confusion ripples through him. Miss Kenobi has a beloved, not Poe Dameron. She is the only one he loves.

“Miss Lintra.” _Oh. Damn. Damn his folly, damn his pride, damn his inability to see._ “I do not wish to upset her. She has always been very kind to me; she is one of my favorite ladies in the county. A good horseback rider – I bet she does not get thrown so easily.”

“You being thrown had nothing to do with your skill, and everything to do with Hux being an absolute cur, forgive my language,” Poe assures her. But he must correct her assumption, her mistaken belief that he could ever care for another when this sunbeam walks this earth.. “And Miss Lintra is not my beloved, she has her cap set on someone else, and that is what we were discussing that night at the ball.” He does not mention that the man in question is Miss Kenobi’s brother – that is Tallie’s secret, and he will keep it.

Her brow wrinkles in curiosity, even as her beautiful hazel eyes remain closed against the pain. “And you? Who do you have your cap set on?”

_You. It has always been you, for almost a year and a half, I have only seen you, only desired you, only loved you._

“I –” His confession, borne of the strange vulnerability both seem to experience this afternoon, is cut short by Ben barging into the room with Doctor Andor.

Poe takes his leave a minute later, bowing to Miss Kenobi even though her eyes are still closed. Ben thanks him profusely, and Poe is invited to call upon Miss Kenobi when she is feeling better; perhaps in a week, the doctor suggests.

Andor does not seem concerned for the outlook of her health, so Poe does not feel so worried as he climbs on Wing, who has settled outside doors to the estate, much to the confusion of the staff.

Poe has felt so many things this afternoon: fear, agony, hope, and now joy. He can visit Miss Kenobi next week; she has given him permission to call her sunbeam, and she wishes to be alone with him. He hopes the sincerity of her admissions are not entirely to blame on the injury to her head; he prays to God for forgiveness for taking the liberty of hoping, and for taking the liberty of listening to an addled woman’s confession. Poe is guilty at having access to Miss Kenobi’s thoughts; but the guilt cannot outweigh the happiness that blossoms in his chest, nor can it erase the feeling of her in his arms.

***

While riding with Wexley and Ben on the following Tuesday morning, that happiness meets its sudden and unfortunate demise.

“Are the rumors true, Benjamin?” Wexley asks from his mount. “Has Armitage Hux made your sister an offer?” Ben nods up on his horse while Poe’s heart stops in his chest. Wing notices his distress, and stiffens underneath his rider.

“The rumors are true. He has made her an offer on Sunday.’ Blood roars in Poe’s ears. His worst fear confirmed. Not aware that he has just shattered, perhaps forever, his chance at happiness, Ben asks Wexley, “And are the rumors true that Miss Kun is to receive an offer from yourself?”

Wexley laughs boomingly. “The rumors are in fact true. I will let you know what she says.”

With that he spurs his horse forward and rides off into the distance. When Ben moves to follow him, Poe guides Wing in front of him, blocking his path. He finds his voice to ask, “But what was your sister’s response?”

Ben smirks and Poe entertains the thought of pushing him off his saddle. “I thought you did not give ear to gossip, my dear friend?” Ben asks sarcastically.

Poe grits his teeth. “I have not in the past, but in this instance, I could make an exception. Besides, what is the rationale for him making an offer to your sister after he caused her to be thrown most violently from her horse not five days ago?”

“I suppose that day Hux realized that he had more competition than he previously thought.” Ben says dryly. “Men do seem to move more quickly when they believe there is someone else in pursuit of their prize.”

“Miss Kenobi is not a prize,” Poe snaps, raising his voice against his friend. The anomaly of Poe losing his temper has Ben lifting his brow incredulously. “Especially not a prize that belongs to Armitage Hux, of all people.” He shakes his head contemptuously and looks out beyond Ben’s shoulder, westward, towards Alderaan.

“A fair point, Commander Dameron. I suppose you’ll have to ask after her answer yourself when you visit her this week,” Ben allows. “It is that or wait for the announcement in the paper, lest you give into rumor and hearsay, which you previously claimed the greatest tragedies in our society.”

It is a great credit to their friendship that Ben Solo lives past this day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEN.


	6. Spring and Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe must learn whether or not Miss Kenobi is engaged to another; Poe sends letters to Miss Kenobi during his next voyage; Poe returns and has a series of private moments with Miss Kenobi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's up that pining, shall we?
> 
> (P.S. Half this chapter is dialogue from Force and Fortitude but Poe's POV. Some of the dialogue is summarized in narration)

Outside the doors of Alderaan, Poe straightens his collar nervously and flattens his hair down, after catching a glimpse of himself in a window. “Do I –” He stops himself from asking Ben if he looks presentable.

“No,” Ben answers anyway. “But then again, you never do.” The servants lead their horses away to rest, and Poe trudges up the stairs behind his friend.

“Is she feeling quite well enough for visitors?” Poe asks as they enter the front hall.

“I beg your pardon: who?” Ben gives him a quizzical look, mischief burning in his large brown eyes.

“Miss Kenobi.” Poe scowls at Ben. “Can Miss Kenobi receive visitors?”

“I should hope so,” Ben drawls carelessly, draping himself on a chair near the door. “Or else you would have come all this way for nothing.” He grins with powerful evil, and Poe tries to school his own face into a semblance of calm: a fruitless exercise. “Yes, Dameron, I know you do not wish to see _me,_ your best friend, your former brother in arms, your oldest companion.” Ben sighs dramatically and droops, somehow, further into the chair. “My name is Woe, I have been abandoned – by Poe! Ah, a rhyme. Most excellent. I should write that down.” Ben pretends to pat his coat in order to seek a scrap of parchment.

“Do not think I will not drag you to Miss Lintra’s residence this moment for tea,” Poe warns. Ben’s cheeks turn a most intriguing shade of pink. “Answer me, Solo.”

“My sister is feeling well today,” Ben relents, if only to save his own hide. “She is in the sunroom. Would you like to speak with her?”

Poe nearly slaps the man; luckily, Ben does not wait for an answer and merely stands to lead the way to the sunroom. Ben bows as he opens the door, and Poe shoves him lightly, then, before he walks into the entry.

His breath catches in his throat; he does not even care for the hissed vow of revenge from his friend – all attention is on the angel who reclines upon the couch nearest the window, looking like some Greek heroine who deserves to be captured in a fresco, or in oils.

She wears a warm dress with a blanket pulled over her lap, and as Poe walks into the room, he can see that she is stabbing a needle most viciously through a stretched piece of fabric; she looks fairly murderous at the activity. Poe grins at that, and his heart misses a beat, then another, to see her own smile widen when she looks up.

“Would you care to sit, Commander?” Miss Kenobi asks graciously.

“I could not possibly infringe upon your hospitality, my lady.” Poe bows, deeply, wanting nothing more than to accept her offer and sit at the ground near her feet, so he could rest his head upon her couch and gaze upon her.

“You very possibly could,” she insists, sweeping a delicate hand at the chair opposite her. In the same motion she sets aside her embroidery with all too evident relief, fairly tossing the item away from her. “Please, allow me to avoid this task for as long as possible.”

This makes Poe smile all the more. By God, she is perfect. “If you insist.” He takes his seat and Ben stands behind him. He wonders at the position and then he feels a vicious poke at his back. Miss Kenobi surely cannot see, but Ben is prodding him like he was some disobedient sheep, or cow. He rolls his eyes and studies Miss Kenobi, taking advantage of their proximity.

Her eyes are shadowed by light bruising, surely from the force of her fall, but her skin is rosy and her eyes are bright, so Poe feels comforted that she is not suffering. He finds his eyes drifting to her hands – there is no ring, but that does not mean there is no engagement. A small section of his foolish, romantic heart whispers that Armitage Hux would surely secure his fiancée with a gaudy and noticeable betrothal ring, but he silences the voice sternly. He will not have hope, not until he hears it from Miss Kenobi’s lips.

Speaking of Miss Kenobi’s lips, they are currently quirked in a serene, patient smile. The lady must be wondering why he sits here and does not speak. “You look better: I am relieved to see you sitting upright.” His voice is too soft, too familiar, and Ben coughs loudly behind him and rudely nudges him once more. He changes the conversation to Miss Kenobi’s accomplishments, the manner in which she amuses herself while recovering.

They pass the time comfortably, and suddenly Ben excuses himself with a flimsy pretense of running an errand for his mother. This leaves Miss Kenobi and Poe sitting in the room by themselves; the door open to avoid accusations of impropriety, and an embarrassed flush on Poe’s face after Ben had mockingly winked at him before departing.

“I thank you for your kindness last week, Commander,” Miss Kenobi speaks into the silence. Her eyes are fixed on her sampler, which she has retrieved from the basket. Poe studies her downturned face, and he bites his cheek against a damnable request for her to call him by his first name, the way he so desperately desires.

He cannot stop himself from diving into the question that has brought him here, the question that has haunted him for three days, the reason for his lack of sleep and foul temper.

“I heard Mr. Hux made you an offer on Sunday.” Poe regrets his rash sentence immediately, but there was no other way to broach the topic.

Luckily, she does not look angered, merely amused at his statement. “He did.” She smiles, and Poe aches at it. He loves her smile, truly he does, but she smiles at the idea of her fiancée, clearly. She is lost to him, and Poe is lost to the world.

“Did you –“ He cannot help it; he leans forward to look at her closely, examine her reaction, gauge the level of pain he is surely about to experience. “Did you accept?” His voice is weak, she cannot miss that fact.

“What do you think?” Miss Kenobi tosses her sampler aside once more and fixes him with a quizzical glare.

He is hopeless in his desire to be open with her, so he says with little regard for propriety: “I could not possibly make conjectures upon your mind, Miss Kenobi. It has led me so often astray in the past to try to do just that.”

The mirth exits her face, and she says, just as thoughtfully, “I did not accept his proposal.”

Palpable, overwhelming relief is all he knows. She is not promised to another. Miss Kenobi is free, still, free for him to admire and love. He curses his cowardice – _if her union to another causes him such distress, why can he not act on his feelings and propose?_

Miss Kenobi continues, “Mr. Hux is the son of a Baron, and after a lengthy conversation, I reminded him of the differences in our circumstances, at which point he withdrew his offer and maintained that we should always be friends.” Poe is gleeful that she remains unattached to another, but rage at Hux’s thoughtlessness pounds in his heart.

Hux _withdrew_ his offer? Damn the man and damn his pride. Miss Kenobi may have been merely offering Hux an exit to, admittedly, a scandalous engagement between a woman with no fortune and a member of the aristocracy. Perhaps she was trying to analyze the depths of Armitage’s love for her; the love he felt could not have been great if he refused to enter into matrimony with her based on ‘differences in their circumstances.’ Damn the man, and damn him for the sad look upon her face even now.

 “You are too good a creature, and it is Hux who would be marrying above his station.” Poe has never been more sure of a statement in his life, but the question still nags at him: “Did it – did it disappoint you to refuse him?”

Miss Kenobi laughs lightly at that, and it makes the darkness of his worry disappear. “The man had just caused me to be thrown from a horse, and apparently sought treatment for a torn fingernail afterwards. I do not think he would be a fit husband for me, just as much as I would not be a fit wife for him.”

 _She does not care for Hux at all._ With far greater spirits than he has had cause to feel for weeks, Poe says, “A torn fingernail? Perhaps I should call on him and inquire after his health after this.”

“You are too charitable, sir.” She laughs, loud and clear, not behind her hand, and without a single care writ upon her lovely face. Poe joins with her, after pulling a pillow across his lap. He hopes she does not catch the movement, but his body betrays him, all too happy to align with the leap in his heart and the exuberance of his thoughts.

Poe is spared further embarrassment when the sun emerges from behind a cloud and a golden shaft of light pours through the window behind Miss Kenobi. Immediately she is backlit in radiance, and her eyes drift shut as she laughs delightedly. It is as though he has been struck by lightning; his very soul seizes at the sight of her in such dazzling raiment, a halo cast about her hair. 

“Commander?” She has opened her eyes and caught him staring; he smiles guiltily.

 “I just – ‘sunbeam’ is an appropriate name, is all.” _What in blazes are you doing, Dameron? Abandon ship!_

Miss Kenobi blushes prettily, and Poe breathes in through his nose, trying to rein his hope in. “I thought I had imagined you calling me that.” _No, my love, for I did not imagine you in my arms, nor the press of your nose against my chest. It has haunted me this entire week, and shall continue to haunt me unless you free me from my agony._

“I assure you, it happened.” Poe fidgets and stares at her, willing her to tell him what thoughts cross her lively mind, willing her to give him access to her deepest beliefs and opinions.

“Are you sure? For we have been in private for near ten minutes, and you have yet to use it.” He blinks at her boldness at the same time he praises God. He came here today so convinced that she belonged to another; she is giving him such reason to hope, now. Poe does not deserve this optimism.  

 “I apologize. You look well in the light, today, my sunbeam.” He sits up straight, and regards her solemnly, trying to communicate with only his eyes the depths of his love for her. Her smile is hesitant but warm, and he is utterly, perhaps permanently, distracted by the sight of her teeth biting into her bottom lip. He wishes to stand, walk over to her, and liberate it, to run his thumb along the bottom of her mouth until she releases her imprisoned lip; Poe does not have to wonder what he would do then. No, he is quite certain he would replace his thumb with his mouth, and kneel down to most ardently demonstrate –

Ben Solo barges back into the sunroom and the spell is broken. Poe reaches for the pillow he had set aside previously and covers his lap with it, lest he give Ben another reason to tease him, or duel him. He tries not to snarl when Ben asks if he had interrupted anything, and the next hour passes well enough, with Miss Kenobi returning to her sewing, and Ben discussing events and topics that have very little to do with pretty women or bright eyes or soft lips.

***

The _Black Beauty_ departs on a three month training voyage a few weeks after his quiet solitary moment with Miss Kenobi. He continues to send her letters, and sometimes he sends one before he has received a response. Poe has so many things he wishes to tell her – some he fears he will never be bold enough to tell her; he prays that the frequency and tenor of his letters will not give her reason to doubt his affection.

He signs each one

_Yours, truly,_

_Commander Poe Dameron._

He wills his love for her into each stroke of the pen.

Whenever he receives a response, he reads it fifteen times until even the smallest of words begin to lose meaning, examining each vowel and consonant, every dot of punctuation for any secret meaning.

His favorite letter is the last he receives this voyage, two weeks before their projected return to England. It reads:

_Dear Commander Dameron,_

_Armitage Hux fell off his horse today. I assure you, no great injury was done to the man – at least, I assume there was not, as Ben could not stop laughing long enough to tell me the prognosis. I fear my brother grows to lack charity to an even more shocking extent every day. How very un-Christian of him, do you not agree?_

_You have been gone for eight weeks now; I had Mrs. Solo confirm the date with me, for it feels much longer since Alderaan’s favorite officer paid a visit. I regret that the last time I saw you I was still confined to the sofa in the sunroom, imprisoned within the house. I rode a horse for the first time since the accident on Sunday, and Ben waited until we were out of sight of the windows before he allowed me to ride astride, the way I much prefer. We missed your company during the ride; Ben commented to me that he had a feeling you would prefer to be with us, rather than on your ship._

_Could that possibly be true? I cannot imagine any finer pursuit than sailing, not even riding horseback. I should dearly love to sail, but I know this will never be. I shall be resigned to living in my imaginings, content to set course on the open sea in my mind. Sometimes, when I read your letters, I can picture you at the helm of the Black Beauty. You cut a fine figure, as I am sure your ego will be happy to know; no pirate nor enemy ship stands a chance against the greatest officer in the Navy._

_Ben tells me that if I give you any more praise, your ship will surely sink under the weight of your head, so give me leave to defer further compliments until your return to Alderaan._

_Sincerely,_

_Rey Kenobi_

She had signed her name only, and Poe had blinked several times to make sure he had seen correctly. The letter delights him in many respects: the idea of her riding once more; her admitted love of the ocean; her praise of him; and, if he is being honest, a slightly uncharitable joy at the injury to Hux’s pride. Re-reading the lines regarding her desire to sail, Poe is struck by a sudden and rare stroke of genius. He knows what he will bring Miss Kenobi from this journey. He folds her letter carefully and places it safely under his pillow, and he drifts off to the memory of her voice and the thought of her laughter.

That night, he dreams of Miss Kenobi, and she allows him to call her by her name; Rey’s skin is soft underneath his own, and her smile even softer as she sighs his name. The warmth of the dream overwhelms him: all his spirit knows is Rey, and pleasure, and a love that seems aglow in its intensity, an intensity that only builds until he startles from slumber.

When he wakes, Poe wipes inexplicable tears from his eyes: then, he apologizes to God and Miss Kenobi and resolves to find a confessional at the next port.

***

Poe finds Miss Kenobi standing in the library on a warm, sunny June afternoon. He has brought his gift from his travels with him, and he is nearly too excited at the prospect of her reaction to form words.

He announces that he wishes to give her something, and he sees her eyes dart to the open door. Poe feels mildly guilty at the implication: as much as he loves her company, he will quit it immediately if she is uncomfortable.

Han and Ben Solo’s voice drift through the air, and she visibly relaxes. Miss Kenobi then looks pleased and quirks her brow. “A gift? May I ask for what occasion? My birthday is in November, sir, and it is but June.”

“You may ask, and I will tell you: the occasion is I wanted to give this to you.” He gestures with the rolled-up map and walks to the desk in the window.

“Alright then, I accept.” Miss Kenobi follows him, and he unfurls his gift with no shortage of dramatic flair: the diagram of his ship, _The Black Beauty,_ sits upon the desk, freshly drawn at his request, for Miss Kenobi.

Her face is a wonder to behold: she looks taken aback, but so deeply pleased and curious, her eyes alight in bashful joy. Poe feels an almost primal sense of pride in his gut; he made her look like this, and to his knowledge, no one else ever has.

“I know you wish to learn to sail, and regretfully we cannot invite women onboard a military vessel. The country remains superstitious, even into this century. But, I thought maybe we could imagine.”

“Imagine?” She does not look away from the map, cheeks flushed with what he hopes to be happiness.

“Yes, I know you have an active imagination. I envy it, frankly. Sometimes at balls I see you slip into a hidden, secret world, and I wish nothing more than to join you.” Miss Kenobi looks up at him during his confession, and the smile she gives him threatens to stop his heart, here and now.

“Unlike myself, you are in the preferable position of not needing to attend those balls to find a future spouse. _You_ are under no obligation to suffer the boredom of polite society.”

“Aren’t I?” Poe whispers. Her face indicates that she heard him, and that she most likely understood his meaning. She does not comment on it, but instead she continues to examine the map.

“If I were to be on your ship, where would I be?” Her fingers lightly trace the map.

“I see you on the Foremast, lassie.” Poe exaggerates his vowels, attempting to sound like a crotchety old captain he had once sailed under. “I send my slightest sailors up there, and they report down to me on the conditions ahead. You need a good eye and an even better sense of balance.”

“And what would I have to do to get stationed here?” Her small finger taps on a cannon.

“I would not put you at a gun for all the tea in India, sunbeam. _Black Beauty_ has 120 guns, and my men who are stationed at the guns sleep there all night in case they are required to attend to their duties. No, I would much rather have my keen-eyed first mate nearby.” He laughs through his explanation, almost forgetting his new accent.

“First mate?” Miss Kenobi asks, peering over the desk and smiling. He wonders if she can see the ship in her mind’s eye: he believes she can.

“Aye, no point wasting a sharp mind,” Poe dares a wink, and remarkably, perfectly, wonderfully, it makes her giggle, a girlish happy sound.

“And where would you be?” Miss Kenobi examines the map, and then the window, and back to the map. “There?” Her hand lifts to point straight forward. Poe crouches and pretends to study the line of her suggestion – and then he shakes his head, his heart and body desperately aware of how close he now is to the young lady. His leg brushes against her dress – surely God will smite him for the familiarity, if Han Solo does not appear and do the Lord’s work first.

“No.” Poe swallows and dares to straighten up, placing a hand on her wrist, and his other on her waist. They have touched this much in a ballroom, during assemblies, to be sure. But this is different. There are no eyes on them in here, and he thinks he can hear her breath quicken. He wonders if she can hear his heart, which rages in his chest like a foul tempest. Poe blinks and remembers his pretense for touching Miss Kenobi; he guides her hand gently to the appropriate place. “About there, actually.”

“Oh.” He waits for her to strike him, to push him away, to scream bloody murder. She does none of those things; her skin is warm under his fingertips, and when he chances to look out of the corner of his eyes, he sees that her neck and ears are flushed, and her teeth worrying at her lip once more. “So, I see the captain’s quarters here.” He’s startled from his observations by her voice, and her small finger taps at the map. “But I imagine it’s different for a first mate. Would I sleep up there, in the rigging?”

Her hand lifts up high, and he goes with her, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist. Poe laughs despite himself, and Miss Kenobi trembles.

Not in the way one trembles from fear; no. He knows this movement; he never could have imagined he’d see it, feel it, experience it in Miss Kenobi, the composed and bright, half-shy, half-wild ward of the Solo family.

She shivers from his touch, and Poe wants to feel it again. He is a wicked man, he knows: he will atone later.

 “Aye, I suppose you would, Miss Kenobi.” Poe lets go of her wrist to trace his finger along the map, stroking the parchment almost lovingly, the way he wishes he could stroke Miss Kenobi’s cheek. She shivers again: he can feel it under his right palm, the hand that still rests upon her small waist.  “But I would not be sleeping in my quarters. No, I would be sleeping below the Foremast, on the deck, so if you fell, I could catch you.” _Damn you. Damn you to Hell,_ he curses himself, straightening, assuming he will receive her palm across his cheek.

Instead, she stares back at him, almost bold in the directness of her gaze. Miss Kenobi is formidable and tempting and too good for a sailor like Poe Dameron.

 “Is that so?” And _damn him, he may already be in Hell,_ Miss Kenobi’s small, pink tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. Poe is ensnared, bewitched: he will go mad if he cannot prolong this moment.

“Aye: I’d never let you fall, Miss Kenobi.” Poe has never meant an oath more, but then he realizes the conversation between Han and Ben has ended; he knows not for how long. Regretfully, he releases Miss Kenobi without further preamble, and turns to study the map carefully, ears burning, an inexplicable grief in his throat. He needed more time, damnit.

He waits for Han Solo to grab him by the collar and violently remove him from the manor.

Instead he hears Ben’s voice: “My mother is looking for you, Miss Kenobi. You will find her upstairs, in her rooms.”

“Thank you for your gift, Commander,” he hears his sunbeam whisper. He nods to acknowledge her, frightened of what will show on his face if he looks at her, frightened of his body’s continued reaction to her presence, his soul’s desperate clamor to have her near.

 “Commander Dameron, I need to speak with you,” Ben says coldly. Poe feels like he has been bathed in ice water; Ben does not speak again, and he hears the door close.

When Poe turns around, Miss Kenobi is gone, and it is just Benjamin Solo glaring at him like he is God’s lieutenant on Judgment Day.

“Sit.” Ben snarls. Poe obliges, terror in his veins.

Ben fiddles with his cuffs and then sighs, angrily. He takes a seat directly across from Poe. They sit in silence – terrified silence, on Poe’s part – until:

 “Do you love my sister?” That was certainly not expected.

Poe stares back at him, unable to think of a lie, or of a reason to lie. “I love her more than life itself, Ben. If she smiles, I rejoice. When she weeps, it ravages my very soul. She is the air, the sea, the land – Miss Kenobi is everything to me.”

“Then why in God’s name have you not made an offer?” This is also unexpected; Poe thought that Ben had seen the moment that had passed between himself and Rey. This is… territory that is somehow even more dangerous.

Ben rolls his eyes again. “Surely Armitage Hux’s proposal demonstrated to you that Miss Kenobi is attractive to other men. She has caught more than his eye; her suitors are plenty. Have you not considered that perhaps she rejects them due to her interest lying elsewhere? Perhaps with an oft-absent naval officer?”

“Has she said something to you?” Poe asks, hope filling his chest, damnable hope.

“If she had, I would not tell you. I will only tell you what I observe; she spends more time with you than any other person in this county, gentleman or lady -- excluding my family of course. Miss Kenobi laughs with you and tells you private details – and, dear God Dameron, do not think me ignorant of what transpired between the two of you just now in this very room.”

Poe’s face flushes in shame: he had seen something after all. “I did not wish to cross any line of propriety—”

“I am not saying you did. Assuredly, Miss Kenobi would not allow such an event to pass in our home; she has a good head on her shoulders, and is somewhat wiser than yourself, despite being more than seven years your junior. If I thought for a moment anything of that nature had come to pass, this would not be a conversation, Poe. This would be a duel.”

He nods, grimacing. He cannot lie to Ben – had he been five years younger, or loved Miss Kenobi less, the heat that had risen between them would have given way to physical passion, he knows it. His draw to her is more than spiritual, more than romantic – his attraction to her in that manner, repugnant though it is to her sensibilities and status as a lady, is undeniably carnal at times. Poe prefers to think he would want her less if he did not love her so completely, but as it is, his desire for her consumes him at times, regardless of his attempts to control it.

Ben pushes forward: “I will say this once: do not trifle with my sister. If you love her as you claim, then lay claim to her. Do not make her feel unwanted. I will support your union for as long as you treat her with the respect and affection she so deeply deserves. But, make your offer, or I will not be able to promise that she will wait for you much longer. Miss Kenobi does not know much of this world, but she does know of survival. She will do what she must to survive, and I will not blame her for securing her future. If she marries another because you are too hesitant – I support you, Poe, but I support her more. Think of that, and do not let this purgatory you have created for yourself continue.”

They do not speak much after that; Ben is needed to go into town for his mother, and Poe returns to Alderaan, mind abuzz in a fashion fit to exhaust him. He collapses into a dreamless sleep, and yet he still awakes with her name on his lips.

Ben is right, this cannot continue; Poe must do something.

***

A week before he departs for another half-year, Poe requests an audience with his father.

They settle in his study, sitting across from each other. Kes tilts back behind his desk and smiles at Poe encouragingly.

“Father,” Poe begins, and then pauses. His fingers scratch at his knee, nervously, like they did when he was a child being scolded for sneaking a treat before dinner.

“Son,” Kes prompts, nodding at him.

“I need your advice.” Poe admits, feeling foolish, off-kilter, a number of things. “Do you – do you recall what I told you of Miss Rey Kenobi last year?”

“You said she was, and I quote you: ‘the most rapturous beauty to ever light upon this woeful mortal coil; a goddess, an angel, a lady unaware of her own charms and perfection, who is made all the more spectacular and admirable for it.’ That is a description hard to forget, my child.” Kes smirks at Poe who feels himself flush. “You were not even drunk at the time, as I recall, on anything other than your affection for a lady who you peculiarly refused to propose to.”

“I did not refuse, Father, there was a…a misunderstanding.” And there was indeed; Miss Kenobi refused to occupy the same room as him for months after Takodana. “But now, I am feeling more confident of her regard for me, and I would… I would like to make her an offer.”

“I think that would be wise, Poe. As I hear it, many gentlemen are eager to secure her hand.”

Poe grimaces. “Have you been listening to idle gossip, Father?”

“I listen when it aligns most fortuitously with the obvious grief of my son. Or did you think I had missed your week-long foul temper after Armitage Hux proposed to Miss Kenobi?”

His fingers tighten on his knee. _Kes Dameron is an abominable ass,_ he muses. _Perhaps this is the reason for my own foolishness._

Regardless of his father’s teasing spirit, Poe wants to hear his advice. “I want your opinion, Father. Should I make her an offer before I depart? Or should I wait until my return? I do not know which idea gives me more grief – if I do so before I leave, the thought of her having to wait for news of her wandering betrothed will cut me to the core. If I wait until my return, I run the risk of her receiving and accepting an offer.”

“Why do you wish to make her an offer, Poe?” Kes regards him kindly.

“Because – I do not wish to be parted from her. I wish to be united with her, in the eyes of God and the Church, I wish to take her as my wife, and for her to take me as her husband, in front of our friends and neighbours. I wish – I wish to love her freely, and to no longer spend time on this earth without her by my side.”

“It sounds like you know your answer then, my son.” Kes smiles, and Poe returns it. He is right, of course. The way is clear, if only he is brave enough to follow it.

***

Seeking a private moment the day before he leaves, Poe stands across from the woman he loves in a grove of trees, and she speaks to him as openly as he ever dared hope. He makes a fool of himself, as ever, and he also nearly makes her an offer, but before he can, Miss Kenobi teases him about tokens and knights, queens and reasons to return from a journey.

Poe informs her that he has reason enough to return to Alderaan without a token. He tries desperately to ignore the pull he feels to her, the pull that is so remarkably like gravity, like the tide: neither are immune to it today, and they drift forward until he could touch her dress with barely a movement of his wrist.

As they stand too close together to even pretend it proper, Miss Kenobi says:

“One could hope, but it is a fool’s job to hope. No. I want you to have a reason to return to me.” She had said ‘me,’ not Alderaan, not England – _she wishes to have me near,_ he thinks wonderingly. _Perhaps…_

“What would you offer to a man like me? What would you, an angel, give to a lowly soldier?” _Your hand, perhaps? Would you allow me to tie my life to your own, for as long as we both shall live?_

“Whatever you choose: I find that I no longer take joy in teasing you. I shall deny you nothing. Take what you will; take what you must to encourage your return.”

She wants him to kiss her, he knows. Miss Kenobi offers him anything he wants – _anything,_ his heart roars, _you can have anything_ —and tilts her face up to him, her eyes closed and pert nose within inches of his lips. He could kiss her, press her against the bark of this tree that has formed their sanctuary; Poe has imagined this moment, has imagined the warmth of her body against his, has imagined the way she would taste, the sighs she would make as he brought her pleasure.

No. It cannot happen this way.

Taking advantage of her closed eyes, Poe tugs the ribbon captured in her hair. He nearly loses his composure and resolve when her intelligent eyes open and capture his own. Poe wills himself not to kiss her, begs for strength from God and Joseph and the Virgin Mary – and somehow he frees the ribbon from her hair and claims it as his token. He kisses it, foolishly, but he is not blind to the way her eyes follow his lips, the undeniable but still innocent hunger in her gaze. Poe tucks the ribbon away safely and swears to return to her.

It is the final words they exchange – or rather, don’t exchange – in their private moment that haunt him for months to come.

 Her gaze still drifts between his mouth and his eyes. _I am not strong enough,_ he realizes. _If she continues to look at me like this, I shall not be responsible form my actions._ “Very good,” Miss Kenobi whispers, face flushed an attractive red. “A reason for you to come back.”

 _God forgive me, I must tell her._ “My sunbeam, you cannot be mistaken. I must tell you that I—”

His confession is cut short by the call of Mrs. Solo. He and Miss Kenobi return to Alderaan, and Poe resolves to receive permission from Han Solo this evening, permission to ask for Miss Kenobi’s hand before he departs in the morning.

Han Solo is absent from dinner; he had to make an emergency journey to London. He will not return for three weeks.

Poe is desolate, and when he bids Miss Kenobi farewell after dinner, he prays that the enormity of his passion for her is obvious in his eyes, in his tone of voice, in the air that expels from his lungs.

He prays that he does not simply imagine an echo of that sentiment in her beautiful, expressive eyes.

***

Poe stands on the deck of the _Black Beauty_ as it departs from the port. His hand goes unwittingly to the green ribbon in his breast pocket, lying next to the white handkerchief that has been in his possession for a year now. Poe pulls the ribbon out and holds it in his palm; he stares at the receding landscape, running the cool satin through his fingers, as if it were a rope that could tether him to the shore, to Rey Kenobi’s spirit, for just a little longer.

Poe rests the ribbon once more on his lips, and then turns to address his crew.

It will be a long six months without his sunbeam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Pirates! (AKA The one where the First Order ruins everything and a dashing stranger saves the day!)


	7. Pirates!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buckle in for: pining/letter writing; some pirates!; familiar faces; and EXTRA pining!

Poe writes Miss Kenobi a letter at their last port in English waters, when the night has caused the sea and sky to blend into the same, seamless black.

It is dangerous, the mission they have been asked to undertake: piracy has increased off multiple trading routes, and their line will explore those seas until the scourge has been decimated. Wexley's ship has joined another fleet, and so too has Iolo’s. Poe is wary of being separated from so many he trusts; Muran commands the ship in front of his, though, and Starck and Blario also join them. Some comfort is offered by their proximity, as he considers them all to be fine sailors and finer men.

Still, worry sits like a hot stone on his stomach. They will be gone on this journey for six months, and he has so much he needs to –

He sighs heavily, and writes, a dark blue ribbon stretched across his desk, one to replace the gift she had bestowed upon him.

_Rey,_

_Forgive me for leaping without careful precaution, but I cannot continue in this half-life._

_I should have told you that day under the tree, when it was as though we were the only two people on the earth: I love you. I have loved you since the day your brother introduced us, I loved you at Crait, and I loved you at Takodana, and I loved you at Alderaan. I loved you when I was convinced you loved another – I love you now, when we are hundreds of miles apart, the distance only increasing with each passing day._

_Am I a fool for hoping that you might come to love me, too? To hope that you could possibly return my affections? When you receive this letter, I will be beyond reaching. I will be farther than I ever care to be from your side. I do not wish to be parted from you again; I hope such a sentiment is not repulsive to you._

_You are too good, madam, to trifle with me. It is odd, that I should live more than twenty-seven years upon this earth and have so little to regret; I have made many mistakes, to be sure, but none so serious that I should wish I never made them. They have been lessons all, and I would not change the course of my life, for it led me to you._

_Perhaps my only regret is not telling you of my love before; not telling you that for the last two years, my heart has beat only for you. I write this to you, not three weeks to the anniversary of our meeting. You looked a goddess that night, my sunbeam, you looked like Diane herself, and when I saw you, it was as though all the stars in the sky halted in their heavenly movements. One look from you would still the waves upon the sea; one word from you would secure my greatest happiness, or ensure my eternal damnation._

_Your first words to me rightfully teased me for my lack of constancy. You accused me of changing my opinions readily, of lacking loyalty, after I claimed you to be handsomer than my own ship. Please understand that my greatest flaw before we met was precisely that of which you accused me: I had not known cause to be loyal to any but my father and the Navy, until you came to live at Alderaan. My entire world shifted that night, my sunbeam, and you became the center. If I could ask you to do anything, it would be to implore you to believe me when I swear to you my undying loyalty and service, which have only been strengthened these two years by the ever-increasing passionate love I possess for you, and only you._

_I love you, Rey. Please, consider this, and the fact that I am your wretched servant, when I ask you to marry me. I shall make you an offer properly upon my return – your letters, your token, are what I cling to in the coming months, and the hope that one day you might return my feelings for you to even a hundredth of the intensity of the ardor that has come to define my very identity. Until then, know that I intend to marry you, if you will have me, if only you would have me._

_With all the love I could possibly give,_

_Your knight,_

_Poe Dameron_

He says everything he wishes to say, but still it is not right.

She deserves more than a proposal with no chance of response until his return. Poe sets the first parchment aside, and begins to write another, the slowly waning candlelight flickering upon his small desk.

_My Sunbeam,_

_I have always considered myself a sailor, a loyal servant to the King and his Navy who would be content to wander the seven seas until the end of time itself. I find that I now hope for something more._

_I miss the green of England, and I miss the grounds of Yavin and Alderaan. I believe I even miss the balls, as these early days of my voyage drag on, and the only dancing I see are the disordered jigs of my crew after dinner._

_While the Black Beauty remains ever dear to my heart, I found myself staring at the Foremast today. It does not look quite so fine without an attentive first mate perched in the rigging like a glorious bird of paradise, come down to bless the rest of the ship with her singing._

_I regret that this is the last letter you will receive from me until my return in the late winter. I humbly beseech you to not forget me. The purpose of this letter is entirely selfish. I often find my hand drifting to the token you were so kind to bestow upon me; the other men tease me for holding it in my hand at the end of the day, but I find I can focus better on the light of the stars when I imagine the brightest light in the galaxy, the light of my sunbeam. But, I regret that I left you nothing to remember me by; no token to call to mind the happy hours I spent in your company, for I like to imagine they were happy for you as well._

_Enclosed with this letter you will find something to replace what you generously gave me. I confess, it brings me no small pleasure to imagine you wearing it. I confess that thought alone will be what sustains me these six months. That, and the memory of your smile._

_I remain, as ever,_

_Yours, truly,_

_Poe, your knight_

He sends the second draft only, with the ribbon enclosed, praying that she will not miss that the dye matches the color of his uniform. He will give her the first draft upon his return.

***

It is the last night of the year when the trouble arrives.

The waters have been still, an eerie premonition, for days now. In the wake of the piracy rumours, the routes are emptier than normal, and Poe signals to Muran that he believes there will be difficulty on the horizon soon. Muran signals back his acknowledgment, and all crews prepare for battle.

The enemy ships appear an hour before sunset, and Poe prepares to engage in conflict. He enters his cabin and checks his weapons, his pistol and sword.

Poe breathes deeply and tucks his bundle, bound with her ribbon, of the letters from Rey, and to Rey, in his pocket. He does not blink at the thought of her name; he may very well meet his maker tonight, he could not give a damn for propriety. If he dies, it will be with her name on his lips, her words near his heart.

“Stations!” He bellows, striding out onto the deck once more, securing the hilt of his sword in his hand. He sees the lights of the other ships of the line ahead of him – and in the distance, growing ever more near, the First Order fleet. Poe grits his teeth and waits for the assault.

It is terrible when it comes, roaring like a tempest, lighting up the dusk with a ferocity Poe has never before witnessed.

The ships are massive, looming over their own fleet, and Poe watches in horror as Muran’s ship sinks, and then Starck’s. Blario holds out longer, taking out two ships and their cannons before succumbing to a watery grave as well. Poe cannot mourn, he does not have the time. _They should have died hereafter,_ he thinks, almost hysterical, _It is not the time for Shakespeare, Dameron, it is never the time for Shakespeare._ He swears he hears the admonition in Ben Solo’s voice.

With a horrible _crack,_ the foremast of the _Black Beauty_ is splintered by a well-aimed ball of iron, sent forth from the weapons of the enemy ship nearest them. It is unnatural, the size of the gun, and Poe stares at it in horror; the light of the sun is gone, and all that remains is darkness and the flare of guns, the fire that consumes wooden ships, an inferno on the water.

 _I will die here,_ Poe thinks, _This is the end._ He spies a young sailor, perhaps 17 years old, stretched out under debris from the foremast. He is slender, and so round-faced, his hair spilled over his eyes. His name is Isaac, and a strange affection beats in his heart at the sight of him, this brave young sailor who dared to remain in the rigging of the foremast in a firefight, assuredly the boy’s first. It is this affection that encourages him to stretch his coat out upon his form.

The _Black Beauty_ cannot return to port in this fashion, Poe knows. He calls to a crew member to light a lantern to the supply schooner that follows their line in order to signal that they should flee.

“God Save the King!” Poe roars, before they are boarded. The next ten minutes are a flurry of bloodshed and terror; somehow his men beat back this wave of pirates with minimal casualty. The schooner has made its escape, too small and quick to be caught by the First Order scoundrels.

Suddenly, a new boat sails toward them, having appeared from the inky blackness behind them. It is a merchant’s ship that has been outfitted with guns, and Poe, his crew, and the pirates, stop briefly to examine its approach in unified disbelief.

Poe raises his sword to point at the new arrival when suddenly ropes stretch between _Black Beauty_ and the strange vessel.

A man, the boat’s captain, assuredly, leaps aboard. “We are here to help!” He announces, almost cheerfully. “This is a rescue!”

“What?” Poe screams back. “Who the devil are you?” Without another word of explanation, the man launches himself across the deck, pushes a pirate overboard, and clambers up the rigging that hangs from the pirate ship. The captain’s men join Poe’s on the _Black Beauty,_ and Poe continues to command his crew, the new arrivals seemingly friendly.

“Fire!” He shouts. “Now!” After an intense volley, the remaining two ships of the First Order’s fleet go down, and the only one that remains is the largest, the one the captain of the new ship had leapt aboard. Poe jumps onto the starboard railing of his boat and squints against the darkness and its random plumes of fire light; he sees the man pouring – oil? pitch?—onto the deck.

The captain vaults over the side, his bizarre mission complete, lands on the deck of the _Black Beauty,_ and races to the opposite side of the ship, nearest to Poe. As if hearing an inaudible cue, his crew follows him.

“Rose!” The dark-skinned man screams. He throws an unlit torch at a small man who turns about face, towards the pirates’ ship. His black hair loosens in the vicious wind, and the pieces fall together in Poe’s mind – this is not a man at all.

A fierce looking woman, from the Asian continent, apparently, lights the torch using some mechanism he cannot see from where he stands on the railing. She tosses the torch viciously at the enemy, and it strikes the deck, out of sight, where Poe had seen the African man pour oil minutes ago.

“Get down, man!” The sailor shouts. “Get down!” Poe looks at him in confusion, sees that both his crew and the man’s crew are crouched low, and then the _Black Beauty_ is rocked by a massive explosion from the First Order’s vessel. With the ball of fire comes a frightful wave of air, and Poe realizes the reason for the man’s command a moment too late. His stance is shaken by the percussive force of the explosion, and Poe is knocked from the railing, off the _Black Beauty_ ; his back slams into the water, and all he knows is darkness.

***

Poe does not know for how long he is under the surface of the water.

He fights, briefly, against the current, but he cannot tell if he swims up or down; his coat had been abandoned on deck, and with it Rey’s letters, but still he is weighted down.

There is no hope of it; water will fill his lungs soon, more than it already has. He fights off panic, the doom of a drowning man, for as long as possible, kicking his legs feebly. Then, a vision:

Rey Kenobi looks at him, her pale yet freckled face shining in the darkness of the sea. She floats as if on a cloud in front of him, her small hand extended, a loving smile lighting her countenance. He knows this is a dream; she has never regarded him in this fashion.

Still: if this is what greets him at his death, perhaps he does not fear it so much. He reaches out to take her hand, to follow the angel into Heaven, when she speaks, the lilt of her voice unperturbed by the water around them.

“You told me you would never leave me, Commander,” she reminds him. “You told me you would return. I thought you were a man of your word.”

 _I am,_ he wants to tell her _._

“Then swim,” Rey suggests, pulling her hand away and tucking it into her strange dress; it is made of voluminous fabric, held together by a leather band at her waist. Her legs are free under the skirts, wrapped in what looks like leather riding breeches. “Swim, Commander Dameron.”

_I do not know the way._

From her belt she pulls a sword, blade composed entirely of sunlight. “I will guide you,” she whispers, extending her hand once more. He takes it without question. “If I truly am your sun, follow my light.”

Rey leads him upward, towards the surface, and Poe can see a glimmer that has nothing to do with Miss Kenobi. “Keep swimming, Poe,” she tells him, fading back into the water. She sinks into the depths, smiling at him tenderly, hand raised towards him in farewell, and he fights the urge to follow her to the bottom of the ocean.

He cannot kick the final yards to the surface; his back is aflame with some unknown injury, and his lungs scream their protest. Poe cannot resist taking a breath, not any longer, not—

 _“I see him!”_ A voice exclaims outside the water, muffled by the space between. Poe closes his eyes, but not before he sees a dark figure launch into the waves above him.

***

_It is soft, and warm. His back no longer aches, and he is in some unknown meadow. Peculiar birds fly above him, and trees wave in the distance, forming a dense forest that surrounds the meadow._

_It is powerful hot, and he realizes that he is wearing naught but short pants, his feet and chest bare. A bird of metal screams overhead, and he hears a musical laugh._

_The environment is unfamiliar, but he knows that laugh anywhere._

_Rey Kenobi dances towards him, flowers woven into her hair. “You’re here, Dameron,” she greets him familiarly._

_“Dameron?” He asks, dazed._

_“Your name, silly.” Rey comes to a halt in front of him, and tilts her head, studying him. She wears the green gown that she had worn the night they met at Crait. “Our name, I should say.” Rey holds her hand out to him, and he sees the glint of his ring on her finger._

_“Our name,” he murmurs._

_“Yes, Poe,” Rey takes his larger, rougher hand in hers and kisses it tenderly. “Now wake up, my love. You need to ask me a question.”_

Poe gasps and then coughs fitfully.

“Easy now,” the mysterious sailor from before places a broad hand on his chest and another on his arm and tilts him to the side. “Let it out.”

A disturbing quantity of salt water and vomit pours forth, and Poe is too weak to be mortified. He almost died, he realizes. He has little to be embarrassed of.

“Where is she?” He asks, voice scratching his throat upon formation to termination.

“Rose?” The man looks at him strangely. “I imagine she is securing your vessel.”

“No,” Poe tries to sit up, but he is held down. “No, my – my –” He does not have a word for Rey Kenobi, so he settles on, “My beloved. I saw her. She saved me.”

“I am heartened that you mistook me for a beautiful maiden.” The dark-skinned man sits back and grins at him idly. “The only woman on these ships is my Rosie.”

“Could she,” Poe coughs again, a wet splattering thing that repulses him as much as it relieves him. “Could she please fetch my coat? There are some items of importance in it.”

“Rose! Get the man’s coat. I imagine it’s blue, with a fair number of medals!” Finn shouts to the other boat.

“Were there any survivors?” Poe asks, blinking water out of his eyes.

“Yes, they’re all belowdecks now. Most of your crew, from what I could tell, the ones that weren’t killed in the assault.”

“Thank you,” Poe gasps. “Thank you, I – I don’t know your name.”

“The name is Finn.” The man grins at him. “And don’t thank me. Any damage I can do to the First Order is just as much for my benefit as His Majesty’s. I have a personal vendetta against them.”

“Why is that?” Poe ask curiously, finally sitting up.

“Because they seem to think people are property.” There is an uncomfortable silence, as the government of Britain does not disagree, however much Poe and his family do. “They killed my family and stole me from my home. And then they stole Rosie. We escaped together, and have been sailing in vengeance ever since, against their colours.”

“I thank you nonetheless, Finn,” Poe informs him, coughing once more. “I know a young lady who would be very happy to know what a fine sailor Rose is.”

“Better than Finn, that is for certain.” Rose has returned to their vessel and holds out Poe’s coat. “Here, it somehow escaped the firefight. I regret that the young man it was covering did not.”

 Poe nods, solemnly. Isaac had been so young, so full of hope, one of his favorite mates. “Thank you, Miss Rose.”

“My last name is Tico,” she informs him brightly. “That’s one of the things the First Order couldn’t take from me.”

“Miss Tico,” he corrects, smiling at her and winking. She laughs and tosses him a skin of freshwater, which he sips appreciatively and slowly after raising it in an informal toast to the lady. Miss Tico walks to the other side of the boat and begins to adjust the sails.

“I advise you to watch yourself, good sir,” Finn tells him. “Do not flirt with Miss Tico, or I shall return you to the sea.”

“Forgive me; is she your wife?’ Poe sips the water again; it is difficult to believe how dry his throat is, considering how much water had just occupied it.

Finn smiles widely at the question. “Good sir, I am her husband.”

***

They sail for several weeks, an aggressive course for England. He rests the first week, his entire back covered by an ugly bruise, due to the force of his fall. Finn has a doctor onboard his boat, the _J’daii_ (which he informed Poe was a sacred word in some language that Poe had never heard of), and the doctor had informed Poe that his back would most likely grieve him in cold weather for years to come, but other than that, he should expect no lasting consequences from his brush with death. Excepting the cut on his temple and the various bruises and burns on his body, Poe knows that he is lucky to escape unscathed from such a ferocious battle.

During his time on the _J’daii,_ Poe learns much about the First Order, and when Finn shows him the regular insignias and ship logos he has come across in his time, Poe startles.

“You say you saw these ships here, and here?” He questions, tapping the map. They are cross-referencing their sightings of First Order ships.

“Yes,” Finn looks at him strangely. “Why?”

“These are near certain ports…” Poe considers them. “And would you say they are the common brig, or more in line with my own ships?”

“They are like nothing I have seen, Dameron,” Finn tells him, brow furrowed. “When we took captives last year, they referred to the ships as ‘starkillers,’ in reference to their firepower and their ultimate goal; to destroy the Royal fleet.”

Poe considers this information. “Damnit,” he hisses. “Damnit, Han Solo was right.”

“Han Solo, the smuggler?” Rose asks, appearing from the galley with a bright grin.

“Han Solo, the hero,” Poe corrects loyally. Rose rolls her eyes good-naturedly and climbs the ladder to abovedecks. “Solo had a theory that a merchant, Reginald Snoke, with connections to Parliament was attempting to secure a contract with the military to supply a new fleet. The deal fell through three years ago, after they decided their current fleet did not require any particular changes or adaptations. Snoke did not take it well.”

“You think – you think an Englishman is trying to create—”

“Supply and demand,” Poe finishes, glaring at the map. “He’ll hang for this.”

“He better. Funding a group built on terror,” Finn shakes his head angrily.

“How long until we reach port?” Poe asks.

“Not even a full day, if conditions hold,” Finn informs him. Poe nods, tightly. He knows what he must do upon his return; he knows Han Solo is the one to see it through as no other matches his influence, wealth, or bravery.

The loss of Muran, Starck, and Blario sits heavy in his stomach; he will ensure their deaths were not in vain.

***

When they dock their ship, Finn disappears briefly to secure a horse for Poe, and food for his own crew.

He returns within the hour, and Poe regrets that their must already say their goodbyes; Rose and Finn intend to return to sea by the next dawn. They stand in the empty side street before his departure.

“If you ever come by Somerset, you will find a most welcoming and joyful host at Yavin Estate,” Poe bows to Rose first, and then claps Finn on the shoulder. “I cannot thank you enough, Finn. My lady.” He kisses Rose’s hand, and Finn kicks at him.

“Go court your own lady,” he teases. “She must be something to bring you back from the dead in such a dramatic fashion.”

“There is nothing to parallel her in the known universe,” Poe says solemnly, mounting the horse Finn had purchased with some of the bounty stolen from the First Order fleet they had ransacked. “Until we meet again, Mr. and Mrs. Tico.”

“That’s not how that works!” Finn protests, but when Rose slips her arm through his, laughing, he relents. “Alright, I actually like the sound of that.” Poe smiles one last time, until the urgency of his quest returns to him, and he spurs his horse forward, riding hard through the day and into the night.

Alderaan is his destination: he shall not rest until he reaches the esteemed hall. The security of the empire is at stake, but he cannot shake the notion of _coming home,_ each stride of his horse bringing him closer, once more, to the brightest star in the galaxy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Poe continues to race to Alderaan to inform Han and Ben that their suspicions of Snoke are true (and oh hey, look, Miss Kenobi you're here too, I wonder how Poe's going to handle seeing you after six long months/seeing you look so ill)


	8. Questions and Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commander Dameron arrives at Alderaan to discuss important matters with Ben and Han Solo in the middle of the night, and he is haunted by the sudden change in Miss Kenobi's appearance. After a discussion with Han Solo, Poe finally asks Miss Kenobi the question that has burned inside him for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claps hands: *PRO*PO*SAL
> 
> the pro-poe-sal <3

It pours rain fiercely through the night, but Poe rides on, his destination set. He stops long enough to pull a cloak around his shoulders, if only to ensure he will look mildly presentable upon his arrival at Alderaan. It must be past midnight now, and he thunders through town, murmuring an unheard apology to the shopkeepers and residents of the village when he tears past houses of slumbering families.

His back screams in agony, but he ignores it, riding harder than he ever has before. The horse must be exhausted, and he pats its neck reassuringly as they gallop under the groves of trees that outline the drive leading to Alderaan.

Soon, the house looms in the distance; oddly enough, despite the hour, he sees a small, flickering light in an upstairs window, and the shadow of a figure keeping watch in the night. A servant runs out to meet him, and Poe’s attention moves briefly from the lone creature who had been the first to see him arrive. When he looks back up to the window, they are gone and the light gone with them, as if they had been a spectre. “Get Mr. Solo,” he shouts at the approaching servant. “Han and Ben Solo – get both of them.”

A manservant runs back through the doors upon recognizing Poe’s face, but not before paling as though he had seen a ghost. _They must think my ship lost at sea,_ he realizes grimly. _My poor father._ He has business to attend to, and then he will send a missive to his father immediately. Poe regrets that he had not realized the consequences of his fight with the First Order until this moment, too set upon his return to Alderaan, too set upon Miss Kenobi.

“Get Mister Solo! Both of them!” Another manservant shouts, stirring Poe from his reverie. He shakes water off his drenched cloak, and he tries to wipe away collected rain from his beard – he must look terrifying, and Poe’s fingers work at the clasp on his throat, trying to free himself of the heavy fabric to make his identity more clear.

“What brings you here so late at night, sir?” A servant asks nervously.

“Urgent business, I must speak with Han Solo immediately, and his son, please, rouse them, I will apologize myself for the inconvenience of my intrusion—” Someone sprints up the stairs, screaming for Ben Solo, almost knocking over a slender figure in a dressing gown, but the light is too poor for him to see precisely who descends the stairs.

His attention is caught upon Han Solo, who stands inside the open door and stares at him suspiciously. “And who may I say is visiting us at this late hour?”

Poe smiles at the gruff tone of his voice. “A good friend, who has come a long way to see you.” He finally succeeds in freeing himself of his cloak, and he strides through the door, handing the sodden cape to a nearby servant; the doors slam behind him, and the sound is overshadowed by a woman’s scream of terror.

Both he and Han – whose face changes from suspicious to overjoyed to horrified so quickly it would be comical in another circumstance – turn to determine the source.

 _Oh God, help me._ It was Rey Kenobi who screamed at the sight of him; she has collapsed, clutching the banister, her eyes demonstrating her connection to consciousness is tenuous at best, limbs trembling.

She is beautiful in the candlelight, but it is a fragile beauty, _fragile,_ a word he has never had cause to apply to her before now. Her figure is so much more slender than it was before, her skin pale, shadows so dark they could be bruises hollowing under her eyes; she has much changed since the last time he saw her, six months ago. How could such a change overcome her in so few months?

Poe has come here to save the country, he has secured a victory that was impossible, he has gained an invaluable friend and ally in this war against piracy; but he fears that in his absence, a more important battle was lost.  

Rey Kenobi looks half-dead, and his heart has never known terror like this, terror that is not helped by Ben almost falling down the stairs in his haste to help her.

His friend kneels at her side, brotherly concern and affection obvious on his face: “Rey,” he cries, “Rey, are you alright?”

Her voice trembles unbearably as she says, “Yes, but Ben.” Her hand grips her brother’s tightly, the bones of her fingers obvious even in this low light. “P—P---” she points at Poe in abject fear. Poe’s heart will never repair, he knows, now that he has caused so much grief in her heart. He has terrified her by his sudden appearance, disturbed her from her rest. Ben lifts her as though she weighed nothing, and places her in a chair. Poe curses himself for not moving to do the same, but his legs are not responding to any request to act.

“I see him too, dear one,” Ben murmurs to his sister, kissing her on the head. Rey clutches at him, but Ben pulls away to walk up to Poe. “Are you really that bad at dying? How did you bargain your way out of Davy Jones’s locker?” Poe’s startled out of his panicked observation of Rey by Ben’s hand slapping his shoulder.

Ben Solo does not look well, either – he looks grieved, exhausted, but his eyes are alight with a manic gleam, obviously overjoyed at the sight of Poe.

Poe laughs, remembering that the country must think him dead, cursing his luck at walking in to this house at such a late hour, in such a dramatic fashion. “We can talk about that later – first: Sir, you were absolutely right about Snoke. I need to tell you, now.” Han nods, solemnly, and points to his study.

“Let’s talk, son.” Han examines Rey anxiously, as does Ben.

Mrs. Solo stands at the top of the stairs, Poe notes suddenly, and he lifts his voice to address the matron of the house. “Ma’am, I’m sorry for banging on your door in the middle of the night, in such a state, disturbing your household.” He bows as civilly as he can while aware that liters of water pour off his person and onto her floors.

“Considering that we thought you were dead an hour ago, I am certain we will find a way to forgive you, Commander.” Mrs. Solo says graciously while walking to the top of the stairs, and Poe flinches slightly at the reminder that he is believed to be dead.  

He turns his attention to Miss Kenobi once more, hoping to catch a smile from his sunbeam, a drop of light in this impossibly dark evening – she looks still petrified, her dressing gown hanging off her shoulder, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck, and several inches of her pale collarbone. Poe swallows dryly against the image; he has long dreamed, for in dreams he cannot control his base urges, of that very stretch of skin – but he forces himself to bow to her, forces himself to forget the picture of her soft, exposed skin, especially when it is matched by such paralyzed fear on her lovely face. No, this will not be used in his perversions to further his appreciation for her perfect, feminine form.

Miss Kenobi in her nightdress, tresses loose over her slender shoulders, is not an image he should be afforded, not a sight he should be privy to, so he commands himself to forget it.

As he bows, he murmurs, “Miss Kenobi.” There are thousands of other words fighting to burst forth, thousands of wishes, questions, and confessions.

 _I love you,_ he tries to transmit with the blink of his eyes as he regards her one more time. _Forgive me for frightening you._ He shakes himself, and stirred from his thoughts, strides quickly into Han’s study without another syllable to address her.

The sound of a woman weeping is muffled by the door, and distracts him almost immediately.

“Ben,” he groans, looking at his friend, and then to the door. His friend lifts a hand warningly, and then raises his eyes at his father, indicating that Poe should speak, and speak quickly.

Han situates himself at the desk, and Ben and Poe sit down in the other chairs.

“Mr. Solo,” Poe clears his throat. “I need to speak with you about Snoke. It is as you feared, sir.”

“What have you seen, Commander? And how did you come to escape the pirates? Admiral Ackbar’s communique was quite worrisome, and yet here you stand, alive and well.”

The next half hour is spent retelling his tale, demonstrating the movements of the First Order’s fleet upon a map Han has available, and discussing the next tasks they should undertake to bring Snoke to justice. Ben will ride to town and unleash holy hell, sending out messengers to every ally of the Solo name, and those still loyal to Mrs. Solo’s late father, Sir Skywalker.

“And you sir, should rest, you are dead upon your feet. Let us not turn those rumours into reality,” Han instructs Poe. “I will have a servant ride to Yavin at dawn to inform your father of your survival.”

Poe nods gratefully, but then stands and clears his throat, remembering himself as he stammers, “Sir, I would like to request a private audience with you.”

“In the morning?” Han asks, brow furrowed.

“Now would work quite well,” Poe says weakly. _I cannot waste another moment._

“You should listen to him Father, God knows the man can’t risk another brush with death before he asks you what he wants to ask.” Ben grins conspiratorially.

“You know what this audience is in regards to, Benjamin?” Han frowns at his son, and Ben grins wickedly.

“I hope I know what this is in regards to. If I am wrong, I should hate to have to kill the Commander, when he has come so far.” He nods at Poe cheerfully. “Although, perhaps if I _am_ correct in my conjecture, it is you who will slay him, Papa.” One more wink, and then Ben is sweeping out the door, grandly announcing, “I shall go at once.”

Poe follows him out to the hall without further thought; Han has yet to grant him the audience, and Miss Kenobi’s lingering presence has drawn him forward, like the tide and a ship. She remains perched her in chair, looking more awake, but still so haunted by some unknown condition.

“Commander Dameron,” Miss Kenobi rises, body trembling from the effort.

_Stay seated, my sunbeam, do not rise on my account. The closer you draw near to my body, the less control I have; I shall take you in my arms if you take another step._

“Miss Kenobi.” Poe forces himself to place his hands behind his back, lest he reach out and pull her close to him, lest he run his hands familiarly over her figure until he discovers what precise malady plagues her, lest he drag her to his chest like some animal and plunder her mouth with all the staggering passion he possesses for her. “I do sincerely apologize for knocking you out of bed at this late hour.” _I am your servant, merely call upon me, and I shall carry you back to bed myself._

She is not his wife, not yet, perhaps not ever, and he knows that would be an impropriety too far, one he could not impose upon her, not when it would threaten her honor, and perhaps her comfort and security.

He will find another way to display his love; now, he struggles to find words enough to state his affection for her, his joy at seeing her, despite his rudeness in awaking her.

“I wasn’t sleeping. I couldn’t sleep.” Miss Kenobi’s voice is low, and suggests some darkness that he wishes he could remove from her life. Poe’s revisited by the urge to sweep her upstairs himself, if only to see her safe in bed, ensconced in blankets, surrounded by pillows, his lips at her forehead. 

His eyes, unwillingly, take in her half-dressed state once more. “I wish you better luck in the early hours of the morning,” he begins, and then pauses, the words still refusing to form, his mute condition only worsened by the staggering nature of her beauty, the glow of her exposed skin. Before he can fall on his knees and confess everything to her, their bodies already drawing together once more like they had that day in the grove, Mr. Solo emerges.

They both turn to look at him, and Han smiles at his ward fondly, and then gestures at Poe. “You wished to speak with me further, Commander?” He reminds him, and Poe nods. He will do this properly, after all.

“Yes, Mr. Solo.” Poe holds his riding gloves gently, and strokes his thumbs against the leather, if only to stop himself from reaching out to her, not in front of her guardian, not when she is in a state of undress _. This will be done properly, the way she deserves_ , he tells himself forcefully.

“Commander Dameron –” His angels calls to him, but he has to attend to his duty.

“I have an urgent matter to discuss with your guardian, Miss Kenobi. I entreat you to return to your bed. Perhaps if I am still here when the sun rises, I shall see you at breakfast, or about the grounds.” _Where I will hopefully make you an offer, and we shall find ourselves before a priest in time, and you shall be my wife; I will serve you formally, dutifully, until the end of my days._

To his horror, Miss Kenobi’s face twists into further misery, tears evident in her eyes, her hand comes to her mouth and she runs up the stairs, tripping on the landing.

“Miss Kenobi?” Poe calls after her retreating form, and he starts to follow her – he must inquire after her health, her condition, _by God, what ever is the matter with his sunbeam_? – but Han’s hand at his elbow pulls him back, almost violently.

“Let the child sleep, Commander. She has been through enough.”

Poe nods, apologetically, regretting his slip in composure. “That is physically apparent: has the lady been ill?” He follows Han once more into the study, and the door closes before Han responds.

“In a fashion. But it is late, and I am old. Pray, tell me what is so important that it could not wait for morning.”

 “Mr. Solo,” Poe says, nodding nervously. Han takes a seat at his desk and looks up at him, amusement clear in his brow.

“Commander Dameron,” he returns, gesturing widely at the seat across from him, brow high with dry amusement. Poe takes the chair, and fiddles with his cuffs briefly before forcing his hands to still in his lap; he faces Han, his jaw slightly trembling with anxiety. _This is absurd,_ he thinks. _I just faced scores of pirates; I will not be dissuaded by a kind old gentleman._

The look on Han’s face depletes his brief confidence.

“Well?” Mr. Solo asks gruffly. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

“It is about Miss Kenobi,” Poe begins, unsure of where to start. “Sir – I…I have wanted to ask you this for over a year, now. I want to make her an offer of marriage, and I want to assure you that Miss Kenobi would be cared for, if you allow me to. I have a significant fortune, as you know, and my father intends to return to Spain, to take the warm air and help his lungs. I would settle at Yavin in his place as master of the estate, and I would retire from the military. I would have the most perfect life in place for Miss Kenobi – I only need your permission to marry her.”

“That’s not how this works.” Han smacks his hand on the table and stares at him in incredulity.

“I…I beg your pardon, sir?”

“My permission is not the thing you need, son – it’s _hers.”_ Poe’s eyes widen at his own stupidity, his error. Of course he needs her permission. “And unless you’re telling me that my anxious, gun-shy wisp of a daughter, who would rather talk about the latest Abeille-class brigs than fashions from Paris, has excitedly set forth into an unsolicited, unapproved betrothal with a hot-tempered Navy man, and has been in that engagement the last six months –”

“No sir!” Poe breaks in, hastily. “I have not made her an offer. Nothing untoward has been performed, especially not by the lady.”

“Good.” Han looks at him and considers something. “Now, I won’t give you my permission, but you do have my blessing, if only because this is the first time I’ve seen my daughter with life in her face since last week.” The shocking image of Miss Kenobi fainting in the front hall haunts him; she had looked close to death, and he had hoped it was just his imagination that declared her so thin, so pale.

“What do you mean sir? Was she truly ill?”

Han regards him coldly. “Rey has taken quite ill this last week.” Poe stares at him, and to his horrified surprise, the older man blinks and tears fill his eyes. “She has not been able to eat a full meal in days, nor sleep more than an hour at a time. At night, we hear her cry out in her agony --my wife and I thought she would die. We consulted with a doctor regarding her condition, and he informed us that should she continue in the same fashion for more than a few days, her vital organs would be threatened, and she could fall into a coma borne of shock, or slip away in her sleep.” His voice cracks on the final word, and his weather-beaten hand covers his mouth.

Poe’s heart pounds in his ears. Had his ship been a little slower, had Finn not secured their passage so quickly – he would have been too late to see her. _What affliction does she have? Is there no hope?_

“Do you think she will recover?” Poe whispers. Could they possibly – he wishes to marry her, he knows, even if she has but a few days to live. He wants her as his wife; then they could be together in Heaven after God frees him from this world. Surely a priest would not deny them that.

“I think she just might.” Han tips back in his chair and studies him. Poe breathes a heavy sigh of relief. “Rey hasn’t moved from her bed in days; I’m surprised she made it down the stairs. Who knows, we may even see her eat tomorrow, at breakfast.”

“She always seemed so hearty,” Poe murmurs, glad for the optimistic prognosis, but worried that she had ever gotten so sick.

“And so she is. She took ill unexpectedly. We were all surprised to see her succumb.”

“Thank you, sir,” Poe says earnestly. “Thank you for caring for her. I … I do not what I would do without her in the world. Even if she refuses me. I know I can navigate this world if she still lives in it.”

“You already have my blessing, Commander, you need not sway me with pretty words. Leave the swaying for Miss Kenobi.”

“Yes sir,” Poe grins at him, fiddling with his riding gloves. “I love her, you know.”

“I know.” Han sets his jaw. “You should know, Commander – her life was not easy. She did not know kindness until she was almost a woman. I will not tell you the details. Those will be hers to share, in time. But, I believe you are a good man. I have seen you make her laugh, and smile. And I know she cares for you a great deal; in what way, I cannot tell. You can ask my wife; I’m not always well-versed in what goes on in ladies’ heads. But, if she accepts you, I trust you not to hurt her. She has been hurt enough for ten thousand lifetimes.” Han points his finger at Poe near the end of his speech, and jabs it forward hard enough Poe swears he can feel it in his soul.

Agony fills him at the implication of Han’s words. Who would hurt the sweet, lovely young woman? The sight of her collapsing in the hallway when he had arrived was enough to cut him worse than any sword. He does not wish to imagine any other injury to her person, or spirit.

“I swear to you and the Almighty. I’ll never harm her, or let harm come to her, if she were to be my wife,” Poe vows.

“Good,” Han nods. “Now retire to a guest room, and I’ll send a servant to help you shave before dawn. I may not know much of ladies, but I doubt she’ll be sympathetic to a wild man’s offer.”

Poe rubs his months-old beard and laughs with Han. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet, son.” Han smiles at him, almost fondly, and Poe’s spirits lift at the idea that soon that he may legally have the right to that term from Han Solo _._

***

Miss Kenobi does not arrive at the start of breakfast, and Leia examines the doorway with great worry lining her face when the servant comes down to announce that she is not feeling well enough to come downstairs.

Poe’s fist clenches under the table; God above, what if Han was wrong? He considers dashing up the stairs, kicking down her door, and falling at her bedside to hold her hand, to kiss her forehead, to beg her to live: hang propriety, hang gentlemanly behavior. He wishes he could physically fight her affliction; he wishes he know precisely the nature of her disease, the unknown horror that threatens to take her from this world, from him.

By the grace of God, he stays seated and does not make himself a fool, or a rake; after they have dined, Leia rises and smiles at him. “If you would be so kind to wait in the sunroom, Commander, I will go and check on my daughter.”

“Do not concern yourself, ma’am, if she is not well, I can come back another day.” _It might be too late,_ his mind hisses at him, like the Snake itself. _She might be dead by then; you will have been too late, Rey will be lost to you forever, in the worst manner imaginable._

Leia’s warm hand falls upon his arm, startling him from his agonized panic. “Miss Kenobi merely needs encouragement. The last few days have been difficult, but I think she has motivation enough to rise from bed today."

She leaves Poe and gestures to a servant. He’s led to the sunroom where he waits, hands folded behind his back. He is glad he is freshly shaven; he wishes for Miss Kenobi to see him as she remembers him. It seems as though decades have passed since he last beheld her in daylight, and his eyes drift, more than once, to the couch she had reclined upon while recovering from her accident. Miss Kenobi had looked so beautiful that day, brighter than the sunlight, granting him audience, no matter how little he deserved it: she had informed him of her refusal of Hux that day – he hopes this proposal has a different ending.

He’s startled from his reflection most suddenly by approaching footsteps – hushed women’s voices drift through the door: he realizes that they belong to Mrs. Solo, and, his heart pounding in recognition, to Miss Kenobi.

Poe straightens his coat nervously, wishing that Ben had not taken leave so rapidly last night; he would have preferred to discuss his nerves and anxieties with his closest friend.

Miss Kenobi stumbles through the door, and he worries that she has lost her balance – but no, it must be his own legs that threaten to give out. Poe wonders that he must still be aboard his ship, for the room seems to toss about wildly. _Breathe, you fool,_ he chides himself. He breathes deeply, and in the same breath, drinks in the appearance of Miss Kenobi as though she were the last fresh water on this earth.

She is resplendent, truly, in blue, a colour to match his own coat. Her hair is braided, and her face flushed; Poe remembers that she is not well when he sees the cut of her already high cheekbones against her skin, the hollowness under her still-bright eyes. Despite the signs of her illness, Miss Kenobi – and how he yearns to call her Rey – is still the most handsome woman he has ever beheld.

“Are you feeling well, sir?” Her melodious voice reaches him, and he shifts on his feet, regretting that he was not the first to address her. Poe is so often the first to speak, the first to act, but nothing is the same, nothing could ever be the same, now that she is the center of all things.

“Quite well, I thank you, but I should be asking how you feel, after last night.” He gazes at her imploringly, praying to God to transfer her suffering to his own person, to allow him to bear it for her. Her face tightens, and the flush of her cheek rises – she must be in pain even now.

Miss Kenobi walks lightly into the room, and to his horror, Poe notes a tremor in her legs; she must move to secure a seat, he realizes, he has asked her to rise from bed for too long a time, she must rest, she must lie down, he must carry her to the sofa—

“I apologize for my behavior last night. It was improper for me to rise from bed.” Miss Kenobi speaks so softly, he swears he must have misheard her: why should she apologize, when he had burst in here as though the hounds of Hell had been at his heels?

“Make no apology madam, merely listen to and accept my regrets that you were not resting when I arrived in such a state.” _I should not propose to you, not when you are in agony, forgive me, I am a selfish man, accept my regrets that I was not braver before you had taken ill._

Miss Kenobi nods, eyes distant, and crosses the room until she stands in front of the window that faces the expanse of the grounds.

“I do not rest these days, Commander.” Her eyes close against the confession, and she turns to face the window, turns so Poe can see the blue ribbon twining through her braid – the token he had sent her, months ago. She wears it, even now. Hope flares in his chest, at war with the fear and anxiety born of her statement.

Poe realizes that at some point, he has fallen to his knees, perhaps in response to the gravity of her confession. “What do you mean, Miss Kenobi?”

“I have not had rest since the letter bearing news of your vessel arrived, almost a week ago. I have not been able to sleep for grief.”

That cannot be borne, the reality of what she has just spoken. “Miss Kenobi, last night I assumed you had taken quite ill, which inspired such a change in your appearance. Did you – did you look so poorly because you grieved the loss of me?” Poe has never known such disbelief, such disquieted trepidation. He remembers what Han had said regarding the severity of her condition. Had she– had she mourned for him so completely that it threatened her life? Poe curses himself, his position as sailor, his absence from her life – he despises that he caused her a moment of pain.

“Of course I did! I have not slept, I have not eaten since we heard of your ship being attacked.” _Please turn around, my sunbeam, see that I am right here in front of you, near you, where I should be for all time._ She continues, without turning around, tears evident in her shaking voice, the tremor of her shoulders. “My every waking thought has been of you, imagining such horrible things, wishing only to hear your voice tease me one more time. Commander Dameron, it was the acutest misery to wait for news these last six months, and when they said you were dead, I – I –” Miss Kenobi half-collapses, weeping into her hands, and Poe staggers upward, to his feet once more. “I wished to be dead beside you.”

 _God forgive me._ The idea of her dead, lost to the world, cold and face absent of life and animation – it threatens his sanity. Poe feels himself pulled toward her as though a string had appeared behind his navel. “You cannot say such things, my sunbeam.” _There is no world, without you._

He halts his desperate staggering when she raises a hand to him, and Poe stands, heart pounding in his chest, not three feet from his goddess, the owner of his heart, his soul.

 “I know you mean to take leave of Alderaan shortly, with Mr. Solo,” _What?_ “That is what you wished to discuss last night in the study, I know. And I shall be left behind, waiting as always, for news of you. I cannot bear it, Commander Dameron. I cannot bear not knowing where you are in the world, if you are safe. It nearly killed me to think you dead; I cannot do it again.” Miss Kenobi wraps her arms around herself, and stands defensively, head drooped so her chin rests against her chest, sobs wracking her frame for several seconds. When she has quieted, Poe speaks, his voice tearing from his throat.

“I am an officer in His Royal Majesty’s Navy, Miss Kenobi. This is my lot in life.” _And I hate myself, for what grief my occupation has caused you and your tender heart, my sunbeam._

“It is not a pleasant lot, then, it is uncertainty, and it is pain; and it is a pain that extends into my very soul.”

The mention of her soul has him spiraling into hope once more; how often has he stated a similar sentiment to himself? The bundle of letters upstairs in his borrowed quarters is a fair indication. Their separation has drained his soul as well – perhaps— he falls to one knee, this time, hands at his thigh, staring at her beseechingly as he asks:

“Could you never be convinced, then, to take a Naval Officer for your husband?”

“I beg your pardon?” Miss Kenobi turns to look at him, and when she discovers his current position, her hazel eyes widen impossibly. “Please sir, do stand.”

“I cannot; not until I receive an answer. Please, I beg you, end my agony, for I have felt it most acutely every day these last two and a half years. My every breath, my every thought has been of you, for you. Please, Miss Kenobi, you cannot mistake me, not this time. I wish to marry you, if you will have me. I spoke to Mr. Solo last night to secure his blessing and his permission to ask this of you.”

“And what did my guardian say?”

Poe wants to groan at the lack of response, but he still smiles at her curiosity. He points at his bent knee and tells her, “Well, he did not run me through with his sword, although I suspected he may have wanted to. No, he said I had his blessing, but the only permission I needed was yours.”

Miss Kenobi laughs, and he laughs with her. “I cannot offer you anything. My circumstances are miserable, which you know. I have nothing: no fortune, no family.” As she speaks, he remembers her reasoning for turning down Hux. No, he will not be rejected for the same, ridiculous reason. There is nothing more important than the love he bears for her.

“What do I care of your circumstances? I am quite secure in my own fortune; I do not need another. No – I wish to marry for love, as my parents did. I wish to have a wife who is my equal in humor and temper, who is unafraid to challenge me, who knows her own mind, and who possesses an abundance of spirit. You say you have nothing, but you have so many incredible qualities. I beg you to set a time and date in the future where I may extol each one individually, for it will most certainly take several hours.” Poe laughs at himself at the end – he once drunkenly spent an evening doing just that, to Wexley, who groaned and pretend to drown himself in his ale to escape the onslaught of praise.

Of course she finds the segment of his confession that had escaped his mouth without control: “You wish to marry for love? Does that – but that means –”

 _It means what I have tried to tell you for years, sunbeam._ “I love you. I love you, most passionately. I have for years – I have thought of no other woman but you, I have only sought, craved, _required_ your company since that first night at Crait Manor. My heart beats for you,” and he clasps his hand to his chest in an attempt to demonstrate the strength of his ardor. “My very blood sings for you. I look at the night sky, and you are the only star present. Miss Kenobi – Rey – my only hope for a happy future is one with you by my side. Please, end my suffering either way. Deny me, and I will hide away the sentiments that prove distasteful to you, and I shall remain merely a moon caught in your orbit, forever your quiet slave. But accept me, and make me the happiest man who walks this earth. Accept me and end my days as a bachelor.”

He finds himself out of breath, his back complaining at the duration of being in this position for so long while still slightly bruised. Miss Kenobi’s face is inscrutable.

“I must apologize then.” _Lord, she is rejecting me. You prepared for this Dameron._ But none of his imaginings prepared him for the agony that erupts in his heart, unstoppable, undeniable, unbearable. Miss Kenobi takes a breath and smiles, probably to soften the cruelty of her next words.

“I must apologize to the _bachelor_ Commander Dameron, for his days are numbered. His time on this earth is at an end, if you are serious in this proposal.”

Poe is adrift, he is falling – no, somehow he remains upright, still on one knee, but assuredly his mouth is agape in shock.

“Do you – do you accept me? Truly?” Miss Kenobi reaches out to him, and Poe takes her hand tenderly, pressing a kiss into her knuckles, his lips finally upon her skin, heart in his throat at the prospect of being able to touch her so intimately.

Miss Kenobi releases a girlish giggle. “I accept if you get off your knees, for pity’s sake. You’re making mine hurt from sympathy.”

Poe laughs at that, and rises, wiping tears of overwhelming happiness from his eyes. “Can you – will you humor me? Will you say it once more, fully, so I know this is not another cruel dream?”

“I accept, Commander Dameron. I will marry you.” When Miss Kenobi smiles at him, it is the same smile of the vision he received while drowning: loving, happy, admiring, and God, he does not deserve this happiness, this joy that he could never have imagined, despite all his frequent dreams of this moment. The vision of Miss Kenobi that night had said something to him, something he wishes to hear in reality.

“Poe,” before he can stop himself, he corrects her. “I have dreamed of my name on your lips since your guardian first introduced us two and a half years ago. It was the thought of your voice that sustained me after they pulled me from the water. Please, in God’s name, call me Poe.”

“Poe, Poe, Poe, Poe, _Poe.”_ Miss Kenobi laughs, wildly at the termination of her pronunciation, and he has never heard a more perfect series of sounds.

“I should think I died and entered Heaven, were I not such a wicked man.” He cannot help himself, his gaze drifts to her lips, his desire to kiss her undeniable in this moment of shared joy.

“Shall I request a bit more wickedness, then?” His breath catches, perhaps forever, in his throat when her hand comes to rest on the side of his face, fingers stroking at his sideburns. “Would it be wicked of me to ask my betrothed for a kiss?”

 _I did die that night. I did._ “Not so wicked that I could deny you.” His hand covers hers to keep it in place, and the other clasped in hers: they are unbearably close now, inches apart, drifting closer every second. “My precious sunbeam, I cannot deny you anything.”

“Well then.” Her voice is soft, but not as soft as the love that resounds in his breast for this woman.

“Yes. Well then.” The distance between them is eliminated, and Poe allows himself the liberty of kissing her. He restrains himself, refusing to be caught up in passion, when this embrace is one created by love and admiration and respect. Miss Kenobi – Rey – sighs against his mouth, and he delights in the softness of her lips. They could have kissed for a minute or a decade, he cares not, all that exists is Rey and this glorious moment – he understands that he must surely be the first man she has ever kissed; he knows that she will be the last woman he will ever kiss.

When they part to breathe, she tucks her face into his neck, her nose resting under his ear, unknowingly pressing against sensitive skin. He prays to God for a distraction, and he receives the most potent one possible.

“I love you, Poe,” Rey whispers. He involuntarily grasps her waist and pulls her closer to his body, a groan building in his throat. “I believe I’ve been in love with you since the ball at Takodana; I’ve just been too stubborn to admit it.”

Her breath wafts across his neck, and her hair is the closest thing to his mouth, so he kisses her head to demonstrate the joy he feels at her confession. “You are giving me everything I need to die a happy man, Rey.”

She steps out slightly, not throwing off his hands, but placing her own on his shoulders. It is almost like the stance of a waltz, but in private, it becomes something staggeringly intimate as she says, “I’d rather you not die at all. In fact, I expressly forbid it.”

“Who am I to disobey such an order, from such a formidable goddess.” Poe smiles at her, his fiancée, his Rey, his love, widely.

A pounding at the door has them leaping apart and straightening their clothes, trying to attempt the appearance of propriety.

Rey giggles behind her hand when a knock sounds again. “You may enter.”

Mrs. Solo calls through the door: “Are you sure? Do you need a minute? I can give you a minute.”

 _I need a lifetime,_ Poe grumbles to himself uncharitably before remembering: with Rey’s permission, he has been granted a lifetime: a lifetime with the woman he loves. This is enough to make him laugh. “Please, enter, Mrs. Solo.”

All three Solos stand in the entry: Mrs. Solo smiling brightly, Ben smirking, and Han nodding his approval, somehow both stern and happy.

“It’s about time!” Ben shouts, striding forward into the room to congratulate them boisterously, ignoring his mother’s disapproving hand smacking his shoulder.

Rey laughs and laughs, and Poe delights in the sound. He swears to God and all of creation to make her laugh this way for the rest of their lives. Her hand remains in his for the next hour: when he departs to return to Yavin, he kisses her knuckles while he bows to her.

As Poe rides, he spurs his horse faster and faster until they are fairly flying down the lane, rapturous joy in his heart.

He is to be married; he is to have a wife in Miss Kenobi. She shall be his sunbeam, his and his alone, for the rest of his days.

It is an ending unlike any other he could have imagined for a reckless sailor: but perhaps it is because this is not an ending at all.

It is merely a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the end of the Poe POV for Force and Fortitude <3
> 
> Thank you for reading! It was so fun to explore Poe's side of things; while he was less strictly Regency (not a lot of male protagonists from the age to draw upon for reference/formality/thought process), I hope he was still a delightful, loving hero that you enjoyed to read.
> 
> (What was that? A ... bonus scene? Maybe? From their engagement, taking place before Most Ardently? Would you care to examine such a text?)
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. Look for "Commander Dameron Takes a Wife," another Regency-romp in this universe, coming soon <3 Angst aplenty in that story, and fluff, and -- dare I say -- Regency!Dad!Poe!


	9. Post-Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe and Rey attend a ball as a betrothed couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3  
> bo-bo-bo-bonus scene

In the spring of 18—, Commander Poe Dameron finds himself in the delightful, peculiar position occupied by all gentlemen who have at long last discovered the deep, abiding contentment of impending matrimony.

Namely, Commander Dameron finds himself with suitable reason to reject the request of Mr. Benjamin Solo, his closest friend, to attend a May ball at Crait.

“But Poe,” Ben fairly wails at his companion. “If you do not attend, I shall be forced to speak to other people.”

“That is the idea, Ben,” Poe informs him primly, straightening his coat. “You need to learn to speak to others; I am to be married within the month. I have been reliably informed that after my marriage, I will have no need to stand with the six and thirty families in our society until my own children are ready to be presented.”

Poe flushes at the mention of children, and Ben’s look of pleading woe turns to one of almost wicked mischief.

“Your thoughts have so soon turned to progeny? Why, Commander Dameron, I had no idea you were to be so domestic; and to look so happy to produce offspring with my own beloved sister – I should run you through with my sword.”

Poe opens his mouth to argue with his friend and proclaim his utmost innocence – no sound emerges from his throat, and he blinks several times in the silence. Ben’s smile grows all the wider at the discomfort on the commander’s face, and he allows the moment to pass to its greatest possible height of dramatic feeling before he relieves his friend from his self-imposed, mortified agony.

“Miss Kenobi does plan on attending; surely you would not leave her without an escort? Then again, I heard Armitage Hux will be in attendance; perhaps he will stand with her so she does not have to sit on the side of room all night. He always did entertain her so easily.”

Poe flushes darker, with anger, at that, and Ben smiles privately, knowing that he has won the battle.

“I will attend,” Poe says, deeply cross with Ben, and with the idea that Miss Kenobi would be entertained by any other than himself. “If only to ensure that you speak with Miss Lintra. God willing, you may even dance with her.” It is Ben’s turn to flush; the battleground once more set evenly.

***

The ball is a test of Poe’s strengths, and he discovers quickly that he is ever becoming a weak man.

He surmises fairly early in the evening that Mr. Benjamin Solo must have invited him for the sole purpose of tormenting him. Poe arrives at this unhappy conclusion when he walks to the Solo’s carriage to offer a hand. Mr. Han Solo scowls at him good-naturedly before Poe bows to Mrs. Solo, and Ben looks beyond delighted at the way Poe’s mouth falls open as he fully takes in the appearance of his betrothed while she steps down from the carriage, her small hand clasped in his own. He nearly forgets to release her in his rapture.

Rey Kenobi is a vision in blue; the soft cerulean color of her gown reminds him of the sky over his ship on a clear day, and were Poe a smarter man, he would write poetry about the way she looks in the candlelight.

For the entirety of his eight and twenty years, he has been a man of action, not words – disregarding the many letters he penned to Miss Kenobi during their separations due to his time at sea. Poe yearns desperately for the time when he can set aside formalities and demonstrate to this woman through his acts alone how much he cares for her, loves her, desires her.

Desire has been an uncomfortable reality for him to navigate these last three months of their engagement, treacherous waters more dangerous than Charybdis or Scylla; Poe cannot think of Miss Kenobi without requiring Reconciliation in the same breath. He cannot help himself: he is merely mortal, and she is simply divine. When his mind strays, Mr. Solo appears to discover the exact nature and tenor of Poe’s thoughts (if the thunderous look on his wrinkled, formidable face can be understood as an inclination of his opinions), so Poe averts his eyes to the Heavens and prays to the Almighty for strength to resist the woman at his side.

Then, Miss Kenobi smiles at him, clear and gentle and sure, and it shocks his system most potently. How dare he stand beside this woman, this most perfect of creatures, and allow his mind to drift to such unholy places? She is to be cherished, not lusted after, and Poe would do well to remember his place. He regrets the internal clock inside of him, that beats ever onward against the sands of time, reminding him that their wedding will take place in no less than twenty-six days.

In not even four weeks’ time, Rey will be _his,_ truly his, for the rest of their lives – and, equally, he shall be hers. But, he knows not to accelerate towards this time in such a hasty manner. Poe loves Rey more than he ever thought possible, and it is due to this love that he cannot disrespect her in her identify as Miss Kenobi in his haste to see her become Mrs. Dameron. His dreams may be uncontrollable, but his waking mind is not – and no matter how short a time twenty-six days may seem, she may not even wish for such a union to take place on their wedding night. If she decides to not consummate, ever, then he shall respect that, and be happy to spend his life by her side, her companion and confidante.

Rey is a lady, and he would do well to remember this.

While she slips her hand into the crook of his elbow, Poe reflects quietly on the nature of their relationship. Their kisses have been chaste, but each one precious; however, last week, Rey had boldly kissed him first. Poe had almost staggered back, so pleasantly surprised that when she had beckoned him over to look at the atlas in the library at Alderaan, what his beloved really wished for was a romantic embrace.

He had been all too happy to oblige to the whims of the lady, and his lips had nearly ten seconds to memorize the shape and feeling of her own – his hand daringly slipping down to her small waist, pulling her body flush against his own, causing a gasp of surprise from his sunbeam—before echoing footsteps in the hallway had alerted them to an approaching family member. Poe had been standing five feet away from Miss Kenobi when Ben had re-entered the library, and after Rey excused herself from the room, her neck and ears a pleasant shade of red, the sight of which made Poe’s vision briefly become fogged, Ben had frowned at Poe and scolded him for taking advantage of his sister’s kindness and attentions.

“You are a military man, Commander,” Ben told him. “I may tease you of your regard for her, but I must remind you to control yourself, for my sister is an innocent, and shall remain so for the next thirty-odd days, regardless of the uncontrollable urges of her betrothed.” Ben had not been cruel in his admonishment, merely correct. Poe should never have taken such liberties with Miss Kenobi, who clearly had wished for a sweet token of his affection, not the crushing physical presence of his person pressed upon hers.

Now, they enter the grand doors at Crait, and Miss Kenobi assists Mrs. Solo in greeting and thanking the hosts. Poe releases her for this task, and waits anxiously for her to return to his side. Any separation from her, no matter how brief, is sheer agony to him after the events of this past winter.

They still face the obstacle of his final months in the Navy; merely formalities and meetings necessary for him to retire, but all the same, his heart fairly aches at the knowledge that they must be separated for a month, not even two weeks after their wedding takes place. Poe never wishes to leave her again; but, he will never be required to again, after he has completed his duty to King and country.

When Rey returns to him once more, he bows to her deeply and says, “May I request the honor of your first dance of the evening, Miss Kenobi?”

Rey laughs brightly, and accepts, not bothering to hide the sound behind her hand. It draws the attention of several of the ladies who stand near the entrance to the ball room – among them Miss Netal and Miss Johnson, he notes with some trepidation – and their expressions range from amusement to ridicule. He bristles at the thought of their judgement, for there is no single being on this earth more perfect than his intended; Poe struggles with the suddenly overpowering urge to take the woman he loves in his arms and kiss her with the entire county as witness.

Instead, she takes his arm, and he leads her into the room. It is his turn to laugh, all anger forgotten, when she whispers to him, “I think you will find that you have all my dances now, Poe.” His face flushes in pleasure at the idea, and they spend the first half of the evening dancing and talking with friends and family alike. Poe wishes Kes were well enough to attend, but his lungs are still weak from last year’s pneumonia. It will do him good to return to Spain in the late summer, to take the warm air, and reconnect with their relations in the old country.

During the fifth number, Rey twirls around the room as Ben’s companion, and Poe admires her form before he feels the eyes of Han Solo once more upon him. Shaken slightly from his intense reflection, Poe spies a way to turn the evening into even more of an incredible success:

Tallissan Lintra stands at the side of the room, laughing with Mrs. Karoline Wexley , whose husband has also decided to retire from the military in a desire to spend more time with his lively, spirited wife, who “could give him more trouble than a pirate ever could.”

Poe approaches the ladies and bows appropriately. Once they have greeted him in a similar fashion, he grins rakishly at Tallie.

“Miss Lintra,” he begins. “My betrothed has long desired to see the grounds of Crait in person. Regretfully, we only ever seem to arrive when night has fallen, and it would be even less appropriate for us to traverse the dark in our unmarried condition. I was wondering if you, perhaps, would help to chaperone our perusal of the natural beauty of Crait Manor?”

Tallie has always been smarter than a whip, so when she tilts her head keenly, her blue eyes narrowing in suspicion, Poe knows he has been made. “Surely it is not sufficient to have only myself present to attend your walk,” Miss Lintra muses. “Perhaps we should invite Mrs. Wexley , who, as a married woman, can provide the precise amount of virtue such a clandestine activity requires.”

“That may be so,” Poe allows reluctantly, “But you see, Miss Lintra, I was wondering if you would accompany another chaperone during our exploration of the grounds.”

“Who, pray tell, did you have in mind, Commander Dameron?” Miss Lintra has ascended beyond suspicion now, and is fairly omniscient in her gaze, cutting Poe to the core with all she sees. “Perhaps a young man with the initials B and S?”

“Perhaps,” Poe admits. “Perhaps.”

Kare and Tallie exchange a look – a look that is best known to young ladies regardless of circumstance or station, a look that relays the impossibility of ridiculous men and their romantic tendencies – and then Miss Lintra gives her answer. “I will walk with you, to allow your trio to develop into a quartet.” Poe does not crow in delight, at least outwardly, but rather bows and takes his leave. If he clicks his heels in victory when he is around the corner and out of sight of the assembly, then that is between him and his Maker.

A half hour later, after he has secured a torchlight and Miss Kenobi’s complete and thrilled acquiescence to his nefarious plan, Commander Poe Dameron attempts his greatest and most dangerous mission to this current date, in the year of our Lord, 18—: Poe attempts to corral Ben Solo towards a pretty girl and a walk in the moonlight.

“But Poe,” Ben protests, digging his heels into the soft turf of Crait. “What if she does not like my…my ears?”

“Miss Lintra has seen your ears, Benjamin,” Poe reminds him. “And as she has yet to scream and cry for an exorcist, I imagine you can rest well-assured that her nerves can handle the terrors on either side of your head. Now, be a good man and just talk to the lady. Try not to quote poetry at her. Talk about… the weather! Or her dress. Or her interests. Yes, talk about her interests.”

“You do not get to provide me with advice as if you were Hermes delivering a grand message from Olympus,” Ben hisses at him while the young ladies approach – Rey whispers behind her hand, and it causes Tallie to laugh, assuredly not permitting Ben’s nerves to settle – “No, Commander, I watched you thrash about as if you were a beached sea creature for years trying to court my sister, or even have her realize you were _attempting_ to court her. Or tell me, was she somehow aware from the outset that you were determined to have her as a bride?”

“Hush, Solo,” Poe snarls at him, not wishing for Miss Kenobi to hear her brother’s teasing. “That is quite enough. Now, you should smile at Miss Lintra, and realize that you will not perish for enjoying the company of a pretty young woman to whom I know you have dedicated volumes of shoddy poetry.” Ben stabs Poe viciously with his long pointer finger, but Poe ignores it to greet the ladies.

Eventually, they arrange themselves so Ben and Tallie walk ahead of them, and Poe and Rey laugh at their success. During the course of their half hour walk, Ben and Tallie walk closer together, and finally, Ben holds his elbow out rather stiffly; Tallie takes it all the same, her dainty hand slipping into his arm. She says something that causes him to laugh shortly after, and Poe watches in amusement as the tension drains from his friend’s shoulders.

“Perhaps I shall have a sister,” Rey says wonderingly. “And you can take great comfort, my darling Poe, that even after you have quit your career as a Naval officer, you will always have a noble calling in the art of matchmaking.”

Poe hums softly and pretends to consider it. “I cannot lie and say the idea is not deeply pleasing,” he acknowledges. Rey laughs and then tilts her head to admire a beautiful topiary to their left. “But, Miss Kenobi, I fear the only match I shall have a mind for in a month’s time will be our own.”

“That is well-reasoned, Commander Dameron,” Rey allows graciously. “I fear it will be much the same in my own mind.”

“Well then,” Poe smiles down at her; he is convinced that for the entirety of his life, he shall never tire of her returning his smiles. Miss Kenobi’s nickname is well-earned – she lights up this late spring night, and he wonders at the necessity of the torch in Ben’s hand, when the moon shines so brightly, almost as brightly as Rey, the entirety of the grounds illuminated and caught up in a silver, fae light.

Ben’s torch is no longer near them, he realizes – they have been walking in solitude for some time now, and his neck prickles in fear at the impropriety, the blame for which will certainly be settled upon his beloved’s shoulders and not his own, due to the injustice their society has to offer. His fear is soothed quickly, as he realizes he can hear Ben and Tallie’s voices some twenty feet away, behind a row of well-groomed hedges.

“Poe,” Rey whispers. “Look at the stars.” He looks at her, of course, because he will always look to her first: he knows this in the marrow of his bones, does not question it, does not fear it. Rey looks up to the heavens, the slender column of her throat exposed from to the manner in which her head has tilted back in her admiration of celestial bodies. The moonlight catches on her skin and casts a dreamlike quality to her already fair complexion, a freckle under her chin suddenly making itself known to Poe.

“I love you,” Poe murmurs, without realizing he intended to form the words aloud. Now that they have escaped his mouth, he knows he has no desire to reclaim them, so he settles for repeating them, loudly. “I love you, my sunbeam.”

“And I love you, my commander,” Rey says, lowering her chin until she looks him in the eyes. Poe’s heart pounds in his chest at her name for him – surely she does not think he wishes for her to obey his commands? But, at the same time, a deep and masculine part of himself, near primal in its lust, hums contentedly at the idea. He is a beast of a man, he knows, to think of her in this way.

“We shall be wed, soon,” Poe says, taking her small hand in his own and tracing her knuckles lovingly. In truth, he says this to remind himself more than Rey; he needs a reminder that she is not yet fully his, that he cannot claim her with the stars as witness, no matter how much he thinks the galaxy an appropriate minister to their vows.

“Very soon,” Rey agrees. “But perhaps not soon enough. I wish to be your wife, Poe, and I do not wish to wait any longer.” When he lifts his gaze from her dainty hand to her wide and brilliant eyes, Poe understands himself to be a lost man. He is pulled forward through a force stronger than gravity to his betrothed, his love, his sunbeam, his soon-to-be-wife, and when their lips meet, it is as though the grass and trees and stars applaud in their approval of the union.

Poe fights down the urge to grab her, to fit his hands to her waist and lift her, to spin her in some perversion of the dance they shared not two hours ago in sight of the assembly, to spin her until her back rests against the hedge, his legs around her own, her beautiful and feminine figure finally, finally, pressing against –

 _No._ This cannot be borne. Poe breaks the kiss, and takes Rey’s hands gently. He brings her fingers to his mouth, and prays to God that his precious sunbeam will disregard the way he trembles. “I love you,” he repeats, kissing her knuckles.

“I know,” Rey teases him, and he looks at her and smiles. She appears entirely unruffled by their embrace, which gives him great relief. He must have controlled himself to some degree, the darkness of his thoughts not manifesting into action; he must have kissed her as a gentleman kisses his fiancée, with enough chastity and love to prove to her his own noble intentions with her heart and body.

Before he can expound on any of these thoughts to her, or apologize, or explain himself, Tallie and Ben reappear, looking slightly flushed, but oddly victorious.

“Shall we return to the assembly?” Ben asks. His face is nearly split in two by a grin Poe has not seen since his friend drank nearly a gallon of ale at the age of nineteen; Miss Lintra looks strangely happy as well, and Poe smirks at his friends.

“We shall. Miss Kenobi?” He offers his arm to his sunbeam, and she takes it happily.

They return to the ball, and Poe requests one last dance from Rey; for the entirety of the number, his mind continues to stray to the enormity of twenty six, a formidable, near-unconquerable figure, to be sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao Poe's gonna die from repressed sexuality, thankfully we already know he gets to love his wife properly in Most Ardently


End file.
